Waking The Dead
by notmanos
Summary: While Bob and the X Men go after a killer targeting them, Logan seems stuck in a literal city of no return.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer:The character of Logan & all X Men is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. Bob is still mine - hands off. 

N.B.: Takes place shortly after the "X Men" movie, and "Schism". 

    Waking The Dead 

Prologue 

    They killed the Guldar demon first. 

Its muddy brown blood spilled over the concrete floor like a kicked over bucket of dirty mop water, and the body was dragged away by two of the white hooded acolytes as another set came up the sewer tunnels, dragging drugged and bound vampires with them. 

There were seven in all, some kind of holy/mystical number mumbo jumbo crap, and most of the vamps were too doped up to do anything but look around as the acolytes dropped them on the floor, arranging them in a loose circle around the High Priest, and their eyes rolled back in their heads like marbles. 

A single bulb positioned overhead put them all in a halo of yellow light, and the Priest, from his position in its center, raised his arms and started chanting the appropriate spell. A warm wind seemed to kick up, blowing through the otherwise blocked off sewer tunnels, and started swirling around the circle of light as if it was the eye of a hurricane. 

Dried leaves and loose bits of paper not swept away  were soon pulled up in the sewer dust devil, and the Priest had to chant louder as the wind started to make a low, keening sound.  
A vampire near the front, who dressed like he had seen "Blade" one too many times, seemed to regain some semblance of consciousness and looked around curiously. He must have had some idea of what was going on, because he looked at the Priest, then at his bound hands, and started to say something that looked very much like, "Oh shit." 

But the first syllable was barely out of his mouth when the wind's howl rose to a glass shattering pitch, and all the vampires suddenly exploded into dust, creating a brief, solid funnel of gritty remains around the High Priest. 

"Well, this sucks," she said, stifling a yawn. 

"Shh,"  Keenan replied, giving her a nudge with his elbow. 

She rolled her eyes, and wondered - not for the first time - why she ever went out with this idiot. "Look, you said raising, fun, and this is just crap. I could go to Vegas and see Siegfried and Roy if I wanted to see something this tacky." 

"Would you shut the hell up?" He snapped, eyes bulging out of his sockets in fear. He looked around quickly, to make sure no one else had heard her. 

But she started shoving her way through the attendant acolytes, heading towards the only tunnel that still had surface access. "Good luck with your death cult or whatever the hell," she said dismissively, not even bothering to look back and see him freak out. 

Admittedly, there was next to nothing to do in this country, but this circus sideshow was not her idea of an even mildly diverting time. 

Man, she needed a drink. 

    1 

    Logan didn't even hear the fight until he shut off the motorcycle. 

He had taken a spot close enough to the entrance of the bar that he could keep an eye on the bike through the window, but the glass was so dark with years of accumulated cigarette smoke he wondered why he bothered. 

Once he killed the engine and put down the kickstand, he heard the familiar noise of flesh on flesh, and in spite of the heavy exhaust smell of the night, he scented five guys in the alley that cut through on the far right of the bar. 

"I am not getting involved," he muttered to himself. He seemed to be constantly finishing other people's fights, and he was tired of it. He wasn't some fucking superhero wannabe like Scott and his super special justice league - he was just a mutant with some issues and some really bad luck. 

There was a thud - someone hitting a metal dumpster hard - and derisive laughter. "That all you got, faggot?" A man with a smoke coarsened voice said. 

Someone else snickered, and another guy said, "I wonder if he screams like a woman." 

This provoked another chorus of self - impressed hooting, and Logan let his chin fall to his chest as he sighed. "I can't believe I'm getting involved in this," he muttered to himself, getting off the bike and heading for the alley. Oh, who was he kidding? He loved a good fight. 

Of course, this probably wouldn't be a good fight, but hell, any chance to beat on a redneck was a good time. 

"Come on, faggot, let's hear you scream," Tobacco boy rasped, as Logan turned into the alley. 

"Isn't there an Aryan Nation rally you're missing somewhere?" He asked, quickly assessing the group.  No challenge here: four guys, ranging from six foot two to five foot seven, most with the muscles and hard fat of heavy laborers and heavy drinkers, all plug ugly and reeking of booze. He figured they probably got streeted for being obnoxiously drunk, or just obnoxious. 

The fifth man was sitting on the ground with his back against a dumpster, blood pouring from his swollen, crunched nose, reeking with fear. Two of the biggest asshole were looming over him, while the other two were standing back, as if on watch. Boy, did they suck at their jobs. 

The biggest guy - with a shaved head that reflected the neon of the bar and was the only light source in the dark alley - scoffed loudly. "Oh man, look what we got here." 

"Your bang buddy?" A guy with a Skoal cap said, kicking the bloody guy hard in the leg. 

"Get out of here now, or you'll be leavin' feet first," he warned. They didn't deserve the head's up, but hell, all he wanted was a drink and maybe some fast company. If they wanted to get beaten to a pulp, that was their thing. 

"Ooh, I'm shakin',"  the big guy replied, holding out his hand and moving it up and down in a parody of shaking. Oh, how witty. 

The two members of the forward guard - for no reason at all, he thought of them as Bean and Cheese ( well, they were both obviously descended from some some variety of string ) - advanced on him as one, and Logan didn't even bother to look directly at either of them. Bean, on the right, threw the first punch, and Logan simply caught his fist as Cheese, on the left, threw a punch of his own. Logan snagged his arm by the wrist, and twisted. His arm snapped with a loud crack, and he screamed and fell away, grabbing his arm ( now hanging at an odd angle ), while Bean kicked him in the leg. It didn't hurt, just annoyed him, so he squeezed Bean's fist until he heard the bones crackle like ice. He was trying hard not to scream - he made an odd, sick noise instead - and dropped to his knees.  Only then did he let go of his hand. 

Now Big Guy and Skoal Cap were staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and awe, with an undertone of fear like a splash of turpentine. Not enough fear, not by a long shot. "What the fuck are you supposed to be?" Big Guy said. "Some kinda freak?" 

"We prefer the term 'mutant American'," he replied sarcastically. "Or, in my case, 'mutant Canadian'." 

There was the fear now, a smell as sour as curdled milk. "You're full of shit," Big Guy said, glancing at Skoal Cap. A private signal - they were going to try something. 

"No, I think that's your department, fugly." 

For big, stupid guys, they moved fast. Big Guy moved straight for him while Skoal sidestepped, pulling out a knife and moving in from the right. Again, it might have had a chance of working if he was a normal guy, and a complete and utter dumb ass with the reflexes of a narcotized sloth. Big Guy had pulled a knife too, but it made no difference. 

Logan popped the claws on both hands and lashed out, slicing the blades off their wicked looking knifes, and he tore a little skin right along with them. 

"My finger! My fucking finger!" Skoal screamed. 

Okay, maybe a little more than skin got torn away. 

Big Guy threw a punch, and since he could see where it was going Logan let it connect. For a normal person, it would have been a bad punch; the knuckles were going to make contact with his cheekbone, and a bone on bone hit was sloppy at best. 

But when one of the bones involved was plated with adamantium, it was an outright disaster. 

Logan felt the impact, and since the guy had a fist about the size of a canned ham, it wasn't a shock. But the gunshot loud cracks of the man's knuckles against his face did make him flinch in unexpected sympathy. That had to hurt. 

He tried to scream, but that would have required drawing breath, so he just made a tortured squeaking noise as he stumbled backwards, cradling his broken hand. He tripped on the legs of the man he had been previously beating on, and fell on his ass. He compounded this problem by reaching out reflexively and trying to brace his fall with his hands - bad one included. 

His scream must have gone into the supersonic range. Logan was surprised the bar window didn't blow out. 

"You scream like a woman," Logan chided, but it was probably wasted, as he seemed to have passed out. 

The guy with the broken arm was still huddled up against the alley wall, clutching his arm and making whimpering sounds. The guy with the broken hand had slunk off, proving he had been smarter than the rest of pals, but the guy who was now missing a finger tried to staunch the bleeding with his other hand, and looked at him, eyes as wide and shiny as silver dollars in his shock paled faced. "What the fuck are you?" He asked. 

Logan scowled at him, and he began slinking back down the alley, everything in his body language saying he was going to run like a scared rabbit as soon as he thought he had a chance. He was cool with that - the guy was not an even mildly entertaining fight. "Some kinda freak," he growled, lowering his head and stalking towards him. 

That did it. The guy broke and ran like his ass was on fire. 

He knew he was being stared at, so Logan looked back, retracting his claws, and saw the guy with the broken nose - the supposed "faggot" - staring at him like a deer in headlights. He had his hand pressed up to his swollen nose in an attempt to slow down the spurting blood, but it covered him in a dark stain from neck to crotch. His right eye was starting to swell shut too. 

He was younger than all these guys, maybe nineteen, with blond hair highlighted with pink streaks ... or was that blood? His good eye was wide and bloodshot, and Logan could smell the fear coming off of him in waves. Yet another person terrified of him even when he was doing them a favor. Shit, why did he bother? 

He was turning away when he heard a muffled, nasal, "Thank you." Thamb ooh. 

Logan looked back at him, mildly surprised. Maybe he'd been beaten so bad his mental processes weren't functioning correctly. He tested the theory by backing up a couple of steps, near the Big Guy who now simply resembled a beached whale and held out a hand to help the kid up. 

The kid hesitated, still frightened of him, but he did reach up and take his arm, and used Logan to lever himself to his feet, other hand still pressed to his nose. He could barely stand up. 

Although Logan hated to get even more involved in this whole mess, he said, "Maybe you should stay here. I'll call ya an ambulance in the bar." 

"No, that's okay." A variety of mashed syllables that actually sounded like nobfhastokie.  He then stumbled and hit the dumpster again, leaning against it to stay on his feet. 

Logan shook his head. "You can't even walk, and I ain't so nice I'm gonna carry you. So stay here - " 

"No," he insisted. Nobe. "You know how they treat us." 

For a moment, Logan was sure he had heard him wrong: oohnoowtheybtritess. But he realized it was the only thing that made sense in either context. 

The kid was a mutant. 

He could see the iris of his good eye was silver, but he had thought it was a contact. But could he smell saline solution? No - must have been real. Whatever abilities this kid had, it obviously was no use to him in a fight, and this was no place or time to ask.  He wondered how he had escaped the Xavier mutant finding trap, but he supposed, even with the Cerebro doohickey, you just missed some; someone always slipped through the net. 

Logan knew this kid had to go somewhere. Many mutants could heal faster than normals, but in general they couldn't heal like he could, and this kid had taken a pretty good thrashing. "I gotta call someone," he finally said. "You're gonna pass out in a minute." 

"No, I'm fine," he insisted. Nobeibfive. But then he tried to take a step forward, and his knees buckled, and Logan caught him before he could hit the pavement face first. 

Why didn't anybody listen to him? 

He lowered the kid down and propped him up against the end of the dumpster, head forward so he didn't choke on the blood running down his throat. He had blood on his t - shirt now, and no, it sure as hell didn't smell like normal Human blood. God damn it. 

The guy with the broken arm had crawled - or something - to the parking lot, so the alley casualties were just the kid and the beached whale. Oh well, maybe the whale would move on once he heard sirens. 

Logan went around front and entered the somewhat seedy little bar, only to belatedly realize, in the assault of loud music and glimpses of neon, that it was actually a moderately trendy place. Oh, damn it. The front looked scuzzy! What false advertising. 

He made his way through the mostly young crowd, up to the wooden bar ( correction - fake wood. How low could you go? ), and signaled the bartender over. He was a barely legal Asian guy with a pierced eyebrow, and short black hair gelled up into bright green tipped spikes. It looked like you could cut yourself on his hair. "A guy got mugged in the alley or something," Logan said, shouting to be heard over the music. "He looks pretty bad. I think you should call an ambulance." 

He affected a look of concern as he finally interpreted the words through the filter of music. "Oh shit. Yeah, okay," he agreed, moving off towards the phone. 

At least he now had an excuse to move on and keep looking for a decent bar. Man, sometimes it was just impossible to get a drink. 

"You must not be from around here," a female voice proclaimed from just beyond his right shoulder. "No one around here would give a shit." 

He glanced at a trim, dark skinned woman standing just behind him,  some trendy neon green drink in a martini glass held in her right hand. She was young, attractive, and had bright blue eyes that looked really familiar. Even over all the people and all the chemicals they slapped on themselves, he caught her scent; also familiar, and, in spite of her appearance, deeply inhuman. 

"Is that right?" Logan replied. "Well, I know better than to trust a Belial on that." 

She arched a single dark eyebrow, looking almost impressed. Her short black hair was straightened, but strands of it glittered - she had tinsel in her hair? Something like tinsel; something metallic. "Wow, you know? I guessed you for a civilian." 

"Hardly." He turned away, not intending to waste his time with a Belial ( a real one too, not a Bob kind of one ) , but she grabbed his arm to stop him. 

He could have yanked it away, but he chose to simply glare at her before doing so. She didn't seem to take the hint. She leaned forward, and whispered hastily, "Come on, new boy,want to go someplace decent? This place kinda sucks unless you're a trendoid." 

"So why are you here?" 

She shrugged. "Hoping to get laid." 

He grunted in sympathy if not necessarily belief, and pulled his arm away as he stalked towards the door, shoving the aforementioned trendoids out of the way. She followed, though, and as soon as they were outside, she asked, "Did you beat him down?" 

He wheeled on her and scowled. "What?" 

"I can smell blood on you, even if the mundanes can't." 

"Look, I helped the guy, but believe what you want, sister. And I ain't no demon." 

"No, but you're not a mundane either, I can tell." She gave him a calculating smile that she probably thought was attractive. "So what's say we outsiders go get wicked drunk at a decent place, huh?" 

"I ain't an outsider, and I don't hang with Belials." He wasn't even mentioning Bob, because that wasn't generally voluntary, and he wasn't exactly a Belial either, in spite of appearance and claims to the contrary. 

"Afraid of me, tough guy?" She mocked, tossing the martini glass aside. It shattered against the hood of a near by Lumina, and splattered a lurid green apple - tini all over the windshield. 

He snorted derisively as he straddled his bike. " A Belial? I doubt it." 

"Then what are you afraid of?" 

He glared at her. She was pretty in an airbrushed sort of way - high, sculptured cheekbones, almost feline cobalt Belial eyes, full crimson lips, and a set sort of expression that made her look like unamused royalty. But the problem was it all seemed like a studied pose, just another part of a Belial scam, and considering Bob's own astounding looks ( although he was not, to be fair, a real Belial ) , that tracked. Although she kept the outfit subdued - jeans, dominatrix boots, a red leather tank top that showed off her impressive boobs - Belials went out of their way to look good, to lure in prey and then totally fuck them over. "Nothing. Don't even try me. Look, why the hell are you bothering me? I know you're full of shit." 

"I know. The only people I ever meet who know who I am are demons. It's kinda impressive." 

"Go be impressed someplace else." 

"Look, you want the truth? This town is dead; nothing ever happens here. You look like trouble, and I want some. Besides, you have the nicest ass I've seen in a long time." 

He sighed. He bet some of that was a lie. But he knew she had been truthful about the town - it was dead. Why else had he ended up here, the only promising looking bar in town, and yet it turned out to be a yuppie lust pit. And not even an interesting one of those. 

Logan considered his options, and asked, "You're tellin' the truth about knowin' someplace better?" 

She shrugged a single shoulder and sauntered over, obviously thinking she'd gotten the okay. "Yeah. It looks like a pit, and it's mostly demons who hang there, which is why I skipped it, but it has booze that could knock you on your ass." 

"I doubt it." Although he wished such a creature existed. He wondered if he shotgunned a lot of rotgut really fast, how much of a buzz could he get from it? And for how long? 

She gave him a questioning look, and, although he had a feeling he'd regret it, he said, "Yeah, hop on." 

She grinned and pretty much just launched herself on the back of the bike, settling in and grabbing him firmly around the waist, pressing herself up against his back. He had to admit that felt kind of nice. 

"What's your name?" He shouted, as he revved the bike. 

"Cliandra," she said into his ear. Was she making that up? "What about you, hairy?" 

Oh, ha ha. "Logan," he admitted, as he sped out of the parking lot. 

Even if this was some kind of trap, any kind of action was better than no action at all. 

2 

    He had just ducked back under water when something grabbed him so hard his arm was nearly yanked out of his socket. 

Bob surfaced and gave Helga's tail a grumpy little tug. "Hey, you did that on purpose." 

"Well, of course I did," she replied, completely unashamed. "Do you know how long you've been in the goddamn pool? Did you give yourself some gills?" 

"Ooh, there's a thought," he replied, giving her a sarcastic grin. Still, it might be fun to breathe underwater. 

It was a beautiful bright Sydney day, the sky a sort of hyper - cerulean that only seemed to exist near the coast, as if it was mimicking the water below. The few clouds were like little tufts of cotton, and he knew you couldn't ask for a nicer day. Unless you liked rain, and even he had to admit that wasn't bad. No other type of weather could be so atmospheric. 

And on a day this nice how could he not have a morning swim? Sometimes it was more bracing than coffee. 

Well, at least he thought so. Helga just thought he was nuts. 

She was sitting near the edge of the pool, legs folded under her and tail still in the water, flicking little droplets at him. He did notice there was an open cell phone sitting beside her on the cement. 

"Call?" 

"Yeah. It's baldy." 

"Could you be more specific?" 

"Logan's baldy. " 

"Ah." He grabbed onto the edge and hoisted himself out of the pool, glad his shorts decided to stay on this time ( that would teach him to wear jams to swim ),  and sat on the side, legs still in the water, as Helga gave him a final flick with her tail and handed him the phone. At least it had a waterproof cover on it.  Doing his best Mr. Burns from "The Simpsons" impression, he said, "Ahoy hoy, Chuck." 

After a pause, Xavier said, "Are you ever serious?" 

"Only when I have to be," he admitted, moving back to his real voice. "So what can I do for ya?" 

"Well, I have an unusual problem I thought you might be able to help me with. Yesterday, we brought in two runaways as they came into Grand Central Station." 

"Eew. Got 'em before they got mugged? Good grab." 

"Indeed. Anyhow, one of the boys came through quite clearly on Cerebro, but the other was only a ... partial." 

"A partial? I didn't even know that was possible." 

"Neither did I. Which leads me to believe he's half mutant, and half ... something else." 

"Demon?" 

"Well, that's why I called. I was hoping you could help me figure that out." 

"Yeah, sure, no worries," Bob agreed, smoothing back his damp hair with his free hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Helga mouthing the words "I'm not going back to New York".  
What was that about? 

"There's no rush. If you had the time to drop by tomorrow I'd appreciate it." 

"No problem. Can you tell me about this kid's mutation?" 

There was a pause - Xavier thinking it over - before telling him, "He has two.  An eidetic memory, and, at will, he can trigger a physical change. His eyes turn red, his skin turns a bluish green, and dozens of red spikes come out of his body; he also has above average strength after the transformation." 

That sounded really familiar. "How above average? Kick Logan's ass?" 

"Oh, heavens no." 

"Beat Scott silly?" 

There was a long pause before he replied. "Borderline." 

"Hmm. There's a couple of demons that could fit that description." 

"He doesn't appear dangerous." 

"Oh, I wouldn't think he was. Most of the demons who match that 'script are pretty peaceful, believe it or not." He gave Helga the "what?" look,  but she just gave him a "not now" scowl. You knew you'd been in a relationship a long time when you could have an argument with nothing but facial expressions. "Does he suspect he's anything but a mutant?" 

"No." 

Bob grimaced to himself. If he was a demon, and he'd never heard of them before ( save for the Catholic school interpretation ), this might hit him hard. "Okay. I'll pop by tomorrow, and see if I can suss him out, and soften the blow if necessary." 

"I appreciate that." 

"No problem, mate. Take care." He then folded up the cell phone, cutting the connection, and looked at Helga. "What?" 

She had moved to sit on one of the poolside lounge chairs, stretching out her long green legs ( she was only wearing cutoffs and a white tank top ) and letting her tail loll over the side.  "Why do you help those guys anyways?" She asked peevishly. 

"Are you going to tell me the real reason, or do I grab it myself?" He asked, the mildest of warnings. 

She gave him an evil frown and made an obscene gesture with her tail. But after a moment, she admitted, "New York brings back some bad memories, that's all." 

"We could make some better ones." 

Her pale green lips curved up in a weak but appreciative smile. "I know. But most of us aren't as resilient as you are." 

He went over and sat beside her on the edge of the lawn chair, putting his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, and draped her tail over his thighs. "You know you are, Hel. Why are you so worried?" 

She sighed, resting her head against his chest, and admitted, "I haven't been terribly popular with the downtown demon crowd since I handed the T'Karii over to the Watchers. And now they have to know I helped get the League out of business too. There's probably an active hit on me." 

"And you could kick all their asses, so what's the real problem here?" He paused briefly. "Oh, you can't possibly be worried about me." 

"I pissed off some big league people. They could make accommodations for you." 

"Let them try. If Lucifer and the Old Ones couldn't get me, what chance do they have?" He kissed her on the top of the head. 

She put her arm around his waist, snuggling in closer to him even though he was still wet from the pool. "I never want you getting hurt 'cause of me." 

"Ain't gonna happen," he assured her. 

Bob held her tight, resting his head against hers, and wondered what the real reason was for her sudden fear. 

3 

    So much for a romantic evening. 

It all started going wrong before they even left the mansion. The Professor mentioned he was going to call Bob about a consult on Brendan Chambers, the stranger of the two boys they had picked up earlier in the day at Grand Central Station, fresh off a bus from Pennsylvania. 

The two boys - teenage friends, the other being Matthew Parker - decided to run away from home, and since they were both mutants, they thought they could get lost in a big city, like New York. Matt was a troubled boy, and his odd mutation - anything he touched with his bare hands would break, from bones to iron ( like Rogue, he had a large collection of gloves, and never went anywhere without them - but unlike her, the mutation actually seemed to emanate from his hands, so he could still make contact with people, just not with his bare hands ) - had led to many arrests and a suspension from school (  he broke an entire row of lockers ), and after a heated argument with his parents ( where he admitted he broke "a wall" ), he was kicked out of the house. Brendan was a member of the foster care system and "between parents", a situation that had been unchanged for three years, so he had run away from a group home to join Matt on his Northward trek. 

Scott had an instant sympathy for Brendan, having been a member of the foster care system himself and abhorring it just as much, and didn't really like the fact that neither she nor Xavier could get a clear 'reading' of him. When Xavier floated the "other than human" suggestion, Scott objected rather strongly, but the Professor felt that no one could refute ( or confirm ) that suspicion better than Bob, and it was quite clear it wasn't up for debate. But Scott had been brooding about it ever since. 

This whole evening had been Scott's idea in the first place. He'd planned this for weeks, and they did have reservations at a fairly exclusive restaurant, so he didn't want to cancel, but it was clear he was stewing about the Brendan thing, verging on a snit. 

At least the movie was first. The plan was this - Scott wanted to take her out on a real date, something they hadn't done since ... well, ever it seemed. And while it was nice and romantic, it also seemed odd that Scott had been this way as of late. 

No, it wasn't odd - Jean knew why, and it was starting to tick her off. 

They had just turned out of the gates of the mansion, Scott driving and her slumped in the passenger seat, when the argument started. 

She had simply told him that this precaution was for the best when he snorted derisively and shook his head, muttering, "Typical" under his breath. 

"And what does that mean?" She snapped, feeling instantly defensive. She didn't like how dismissive that sounded. 

For a moment he sat stiff and still behind the wheel of his sports car, a muscle twitching in his jaw and visible in the dashboard lights, which also highlighted the yellow of an old bruise on his right cheek. Most of the 'souvenirs' from the fight with the Logan possessed Heydon had healed or were at least healed enough to not be visible - the broken nose ( mostly ), the loose teeth were reset, the hairline cheekbone fracture was healing nicely, and his concussion had been treated - but a few bruises lingered. Just as soon as she figured he was going to try and be conciliatory, he said, "You're always siding with others against me lately." 

"Excuse me?" She replied, feeling even more irate than before. "Siding? I was unaware this was a contest." 

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, and never took his eyes off the road. "Look, I don't mind it so much with the Professor, I expect it, but couldn't you just once - " 

"I'm glad that meets with your approval," she sniped, not wanting to say it but saying it anyways. Jean knew then that this whole evening had been blown to hell, and they might as well just turn around and go home. They were both in bitter, unpleasant moods, and who better to take it out on than each other? 

Scott had been sullen since the whole Logan/Heydon incident. Perhaps he expected an apology from Logan, even though it wasn't his fault. Bob had even told them Heydon had intended to use Logan's claws on Scott, but Logan had been able to retract them at the last second, saving his life. But Scott didn't trust Bob, and Logan had left before anyone could ask if that was true. 

Scott barely needed a reason to blame Logan for anything; he'd find an excuse if none were immediately available. It was so childish, and she knew why, which was why she was so ticked off at him for the moment. 

Jealousy. She thought Scott was better than that. Men. 

"Look, can't we just have a nice evening away from everything?" He asked peevishly. 

"I'm not the one who started this." 

He sighed heavily, as if she was trying his patience. His knuckles turned ghost white on the steering wheel, and that muscle in his jaw wasn't twitching more than it was spasming. 

"Okay," Scott finally said. "Can we start over? Pretend this hadn't happened?" 

"Sure, fine," she sighed in returned, glancing out her window. The dark roadside slid by like water, the glimmer of street lights like distant stars. 

The silence spilled past them, tense and unsettling, and finally Scott asked plaintively, "What's happened to us, Jean?" 

She found the question almost heartbreaking. "I don't know," she admitted. She wished she knew so she could fix the problem. 

The glib answer - they were "growing apart" - felt like an easy excuse, and complete bullshit.  
It was like an invisible wedge had been jammed between them; they hardly talked anymore, except about school and politics, and at times it felt like she was sharing a bed with a stranger. These things happened with all couples she supposed, but she really didn't know. She hadn't had many relationships; being a telepath had given her a complication that most people didn't have to deal with. She had encountered few people whose minds she wished to touch, and when you reached a certain level of physical intimacy, it was hard not to "touch" someone's mind - and that had killed most of her relationships. Seeing into their minds was enough to kill everything, no matter how much she thought she may have loved them. 

Scott was different. He seemed to be a match made in heaven, with his steady, uncomplicated mind; his personality seemed custom made to soothe her at her worst. 

So what had gone wrong? 

Maybe it had been unfair to him. She used him like an anchor, a rock when her powers started to overwhelm her, but what did he get from her? She knew he loved her unconditionally, and maybe she took advantage of that from time to time. 


	2. Part 2

She didn't know anymore. Maybe it was all the stress, the new students and the new fears of renewed anti - mutant laws, all the strange things happening with Bob and Logan. And Scott was kidnapped and briefly taken and brainwashed by those people who wanted Logan. Bob seemed to have "pushed" him into a healthy mindset about what had happened to him, but she couldn't help but think it might have had a deeper reach into Scott's mind than even Bob could have anticipated. 

Jean leaned her head against the cool glass and closed her eyes. What she wouldn't give to have things just as they used to be. 

They rode in silence until they reached the movie theater, a quaint, old fashioned type - meaning it was not a multiplex in a mall. It called itself the Grand Cinema, and it was: converted from a hotel in the late '60's, the interior still bore the red velvet carpets in the lobby ( now the main ticket counter and snack station ) and the hallways that sprawled between separate theaters like the distances between grand ballrooms, which was actually what they used to be. There were only four screens, and none ever played  the same movie as its far off neighbor. 

Usually, before she even described the plush rose and navy velvet seats, everyone guessed - correctly - it was an "arthouse" theater, the type that showed independent and foreign films. Probably the only time gunfire and explosions was seen in the Grand Cinema was when they were showing "La Femme Nikita" or "Run Lola Run", and even then they were arty. 

But they had seen some good films there. Scott loved big explosion movies as much as any man, but to her genuine surprise he actually liked an occasional subtitled film, and actually counted a long, grim, subtitled film - "Stalingrad" - as one of his all time favorites. Then again, it was a World War Two film, and he secretly had a great passion for those; his top two favorite movies of all times were "The Guns of Navarone" and "Bridge On The River Kwai", which he would freely admit he had probably seen more times than was healthy.  Sometimes she worried about him. 

Since this was a " date " - at least in theory - he wasn't taking her to a war movie tonight ( well, how could he? "Das Boot, The Director's Cut" was no longer playing ). No, tonight it was some French film which she forgot the title of, but no matter, because she doubted she'd be paying much attention to the film. 

Too bad there wasn't a comedy showing. They could both probably use the lightening up. 

It wasn't that she didn't like the occasional foreign film - of course she did - but every now and then the subtitles got annoying ( it was hard to read the film and watch the action on screen at the same time ), and you just had to be in the mood for it. If this movie was depressing, considering the mood they were both in, they'd probably wallow in self - pity afterwards. They were starting to do so right now, in fact. 

Although the Grand Cinema was a lovely piece of architecture in an 'arty' part of town, the outside of the building kept the dull brick facade that the former hotel owner had installed, as he intended to sell it as an office building originally. There was no marquee sign either, just flyers and mini - posters for all the films currently showing hidden behind glass topped frames that hung on the outside, on either side of the glass doors. There were big black letters spelling "Grand Cinema" over the doorway, but they seemed like an afterthought, and in dim light became almost invisible against the aged mud brown bricks. 

It shared a cracked parking lot around back with a neighboring bookstore/coffee shop that called itself "The Knowing Bean". Scott once said, "Wow. There's a name too dorky even for me." Not only did that make her smile, but she once went in and bought a book on neurobiology, just so she could give Scott a birthday present in one of their bags, with the logo emblazoned across the front. He laughed, and pronounced it the geekiest bag in the history of bags; it was now on the upper shelf of their closet, filled with either sweaters or t - shirts, depending on whether it was summer or winter. 

Scott did have a sense of humor; he did have light moments. But lately they seemed to be becoming few and far between. And maybe that was true for her as well. 

There were less than a dozen cars in the lot, which was not a surprise. It was a Tuesday night, and there was no "sleeper" indy hit currently screening here. Scott's car was the sleekest, nicest one here; although none of the other cars were exactly beaters, they were in general sensible cars - well used Saabs, Saturns and older Lexuses, even a lovingly restored Volkswagen - that you might expect people deemed "intellectuals" ( and the occasionally arty and parent subsidized college student ) to drive. But at least that crowd was generally too p.c. to openly stare. 

They sat in the car for a moment after he killed the engine, staring at nothing through the windshield. "Should we just give up now?" He wondered. 

She didn't know if he meant give up on the date, the movie, or their entire relationship. But she decided she didn't really want to know, ignorance being bliss and all. "No. We're here, we might as well go see the film. Unless you'd rather grab a latte and go sit in The Knowing Bean for a while." 

He smiled weakly at her stab at humor. "Yes, maybe we can discuss Proust and talk about the death of modern literature." 

"And then we'll buy armfuls of Grisham and Steel novels before we leave." 

They both smiled as they pictured the look on the hapless clerk's face. 

"But I kind of liked "The Client"," Scott said, as they both got out of the car. 

She shook her head and refrained from comment, but maybe they could salvage the evening after all. 

It was decidedly quiet as they reached the front of the Grand Cinema, but that wasn't unusual, as this was one of those rare parts of New York that only seemed to come to life on select Friday and Saturday nights, and even then only in a controlled, sporadic way, as if everyone was afraid of aggravating their headache. 

But as soon as Scott opened the glass door, playing the gallant gentleman and holding it open for her, they both smelled something odd. Over the comforting, familiar scent of fresh popcorn was something heavy and rank, and familiar to her, but not in this setting. 

Blood. Lots of blood. 

They both leaned in for a look, braced for the worst, ready to use their powers at any second. 

There was no need - whatever had occurred had happened long before they arrived. 

Most of the dim lights in the wide lobby had been broken, so the whole scene was bathed in a half light that made the blood on the walls look like splashes of black paint. The large, horseshoe shaped mahogany front desk turned ticket counter had three bodies splayed on it like casually discarded dolls, and the glass side of the old fashioned popcorn machine had the counter girl broken through it, blood and popcorn forming a ghoulish pool on the velvet carpet beneath her. 

The body closest to them was a man in a sweater with leather patches on the elbows. He looked like a college professor, but she knew from past visits he was the manager of the cinema. His face was turned away from them, head at an odd angle suggesting his neck had been broken, but it looked like his stomach had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but a bloody, garish hole where his abdomen used to be. 

She closed her eyes and held a hand to her nose and mouth as Scott gasped, "Good god, what happened here?" 

A massacre. But since that was obvious, she didn't bother to tell him. 

3 

    Logan found piecing together the events of the night before even more challenging than usual. He had been in the shower for a good five minutes before he even remembered the name of the woman. 

The memories didn't come back in a rush but a slow trickle, like a leak in a faucet. Clia took him to a real dive, and when she called it a pit, she wasn't using hyperbole: it was a literal pit, a bar in the basement of an otherwise condemned building, whose collapsed floors shifted overhead whenever anyone shut the door. But no one seemed concerned that the roof was going to fall in, so it didn't bother him either. 

It smelled horrible, like a demon sauna, but since all the patrons and even the bartender was a demon, what did he expect? They seemed to more or less ignore him, maybe because he was with Clia, and in a way that was disappointing - he was still itching for a good fight. 

Instead of getting him a beer, she ordered them both a drink called "Seeing God". "You have to try it," she insisted. "You'll never find anything like it in a Human bar." 

He considered that a good thing, but hell, it was just booze - it wasn't like it would effect him. 

Man, was he dumb sometimes. 

He should have known it might be more than booze,or at least relatively inhuman booze. He thought it smelled weird - like ambergris and freesia - but it looked innocuous, just a glass of translucent amber liquid. So he held his breath and gulped it down, and while it burned a bit going down and had an aftertaste like a sweet honeydew melon, it seemed like nothing special at all - like most booze, it  
was just like water to him. 

For exactly ten minutes. 

Then he became aware of a sort of warm sensation spreading throughout his skin,diffusing through his blood, and by the time it reached his face in a flush of heat, he felt really, impossibly good. He felt lightheaded, but in a good way, and nearly everything seemed funny. Clia leaned over, and said, "Isn't it great?" 

And when she touched his arm, there was an explosion of tactile sensation that nearly knocked him off his chair. It was like every nerve in his body was feeding back messages at tenfold the rate of normal, and it was ... incredible. There were no words for how good it honestly felt. He had never felt anything like it. 

After that, the night got really fuzzy. He actually didn't remember much at all from that time until he woke up. She could have very well drugged him - if it was new to his system, and especially if it was demon based, it might get to him - and who knew what the hell she could have done. He should have known better than to trust a Belial. 

Once his head had cleared up as much as it was going to, he toweled himself off and started searching for his clothes. He found his jeans first, and discovered there was a huge gash in the right leg, just over and including the knee. There was a little blood discoloring the edges, but it only smelled like his, and he didn't really care, but he was disappointed if he got in a fight and couldn't remember it. Well, it was hardly the first time, was it? 

He found his t - shirt on a lamp, and his boxers partially draped on the dusty windowsill, and only then did it slowly dawn on him that this "apartment" was in fact a hotel room. A rather large hotel room, but still just that, and judging from the smell of Clia and the personal items scattered about, this was something she had been living in for some time. 

He'd just put on the clothes he had found and started searching for the rest when he heard the front door open, and a sharp noise of impact, like a small, solid ( but mostly plastic ) item had been thrown and broken against a wall. He looked around the corner, just in time to see Clia storm in and slam the door, cursing under her breath. Seeing him, she jumped slightly. "Problem?" He wondered. A glance in the direction of the noise showed the broken remains of a cell phone strewn over the steel grey carpet. 

"Oh, I hate cell phones. They never work when you need them to." She said, running a hand through her glossy black hair. 

A short glance at the aggressively pastel front room showed a very old fashioned looking beige telephone on a side table, underneath an ugly ivory lamp. "Why not use the land line?" 

She gave the phone a cursory glance. "Oh, that piece of shit thing isn't working either. I can't seem to get an outside line." 

"Why do you need an outside line?" He wondered, coming into the front room. He saw his jacket on the floor next to the side table. 

She arched an eyebrow at him. " 'Cause I want to call someone. Is that all right with you?" 

"Call 'em about me?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

He grabbed his coat off the floor, and gave her a hard look. "You drugged me." 

She scoffed. "I did not." 

He shrugged on his jacket and just raised an eyebrow at her. He'd only get physical if he had to - she was a Belial, and he could kick her ass with his hands tied behind his back and a sucking chest wound. 

"Oh, is it my fucking fault the drink hit you so hard?" She shot back defensively, crossing her arms over her chest. "Humans." 

"You knew it would." 

"You didn't complain last night." 

"How do I know that? I can't remember last night!" 

She shook her head and made a derisive noise. "No wonder you're so grouchy." 

"I am not grouchy - I don't like getting set up." 

"Set up? For what? If I was really a villain, don't you think you'd have woken up in a dungeon or something?" 

Okay, that was a point for her. "Maybe I was supposed to, but you can't get through to your contacts." 

She rolled her eyes, and he knew then she wasn't lying. Whatever she was up to, it had nothing to do with him. "Get over yourself, man! Why the hell would I want you? I mean sure, you were a good fuck - for a Human - but please! " Her exasperation soon turned to curiosity. "Why are you so paranoid? Are you wanted or something?" 

"Something," he snapped, not really wanting to get into it. He really had to stop sleeping with demons. 

She scrutinized him with her violently blue eyes, obviously not believing him, but she had no desire to mix it up with him. "Fine, whatever," she said, throwing her arms up in disgust. "So, Grumpy, do you wanna go get some breakfast, or would you rather sulk around here like a tiger with a sore paw?" 

He glared at her, but she seemed far from intimidated. Why? Belials weren't that stupid, were they? Oh, well, maybe ... 

"Yeah, sure, why not?" If this was a set up, he might as well play it out and see where it all ended up. 

4 

    As usual, the newspaper reporters seemed to be on crack. 

"Robbery?" Scott said, replying aloud to the headline of the article. "There was no robbery - the cash register and safe were untouched!" 

"A random crime has to have some meaning," Jean said, with a weary sigh. "And if one can't be found, some people find it comforting to ascribe one, whether it fits or not." 

They were sitting in the dining room, ostensibly having breakfast, but since they were up so late last night talking to the police ( so much for that date ) it was actually early afternoon, and they had the dining room all to themselves. Ironically, they had no appetite to speak of. 

Scott folded up the front page and set it aside, no longer interested in reading the rest. They knew exactly how many were dead: even as Jean used her cell phone to call the police, they still had a look around, to see if there were any survivors, being careful to avoid any potential evidence. They found patrons dead in two of the four movie theaters ( luckily, there was only nine in one and five in the other - apparently Indian musicals and philosophical Italian films were not the big draws ), and since the films were still running they held out some hope the projectionist was alive, just oblivious to everything that had gone on. But it had been a futile hope. The machines were running, as they were supposed to do, but the projectionist was dead on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. 

This was unbelievable. How could someone come in and kill twenty nine people, all at virtually the same time, in no time at all? It didn't look like there was a struggle either ... and several had their stomachs hollowed out. 

It was obvious that there was more than one killer at work. And mostly not even a normal killer. He was hoping demonic because he hated to think mutant. 

"Do you think it was coincidence?" Jean asked, picking sullenly at her fruit salad, which she hadn't eaten more than simply rearranged it on her plate. 

"What do you mean?" 

"That we were the first people to arrive on the scene." 

He hadn't thought of that before, but he hadn't thought of much except the details of the crime scene, mentally scouring it in hopes of remembering some key, crucial detail that would point towards the perpetrators. But all he could remember was the blood, the grotesque wounds, and the sickening rage and madness behind it all. If there were actual clues, they eluded him. 

"Who knew we were going to the theater?" 

"Who didn't? Everyone here knew, and we were regulars there, Scott; even the manager knew us by name." 

"True." That was a troubling thought. Maybe they were supposed to be at the theater during the attack, but because they were late ... 

They were late. Holy shit. 

Jean shrugged a single shoulder and started shoving an orange wedge around her plate. "Maybe Logan's paranoia has rubbed off on me." 

"Maybe not," he mused, looking out the window. Here you got a view of the side garden, little used saved for ornamental purposes, but every now and then he caught a hint of moment at the edge of his vision, one of the kids - or perhaps several - moving at a speed to great to be seen by the Human eye. He heard a distant, put upon shout of, "Hey, no flying! That's not fair!" The laurel hedges swayed as if they caught a cross breeze from a rotor. 

"But why would someone target us?" She said, playing devil's advocate to her own troubling hypothesis. "And why would they kill everyone if they discovered we weren't there?" 

Scott considered that a moment, frowning down at the toast he never bothered to eat, and realized, with a cold shock of horror: "They saw them. They saw them, and couldn't be allowed to tell anyone what they saw. " It was really the only thing that made logical sense - they couldn't have witnesses. Not just to their crime, but them. 

Jean stared across at him, startled by that thought. A worry line creased her brow, and the clang of her fork dropping to the plate sounded as violent as breaking glass in the tiny space. "But why? And why not wait for us?" 

He shook his head. He didn't know, and he couldn't even begin to guess. But he knew that if they had dodged a bullet this time, it wouldn't be for long. 

*** 

    Logan knew there was something wrong the moment they stepped outside. 

He knew they were in a small town on the bottom end of Ontario, a place called Saint Michel, a tiny burg with city pretensions that never really took off. It went out of its way to appear more urban than rural ( they seemed inordinately proud of their Thai restaurant ), but whether it was made of brick and clapboard or steel and glass, a closed building was a closed building. It all looked like a town trying too damn hard to be relevant, and failing. 

So the fact that he and Clia seemed to be the only ones out at this time of the morning was not terribly surprising. The main problem was the sky. 

It was an odd sort of greyish blue, like the sun was partially obscured by rain clouds - but he couldn't see any clouds. Or the sun, for that matter.As he was looking around for them, over the rooftops of the miniaturized urban landscape, Clia asked, "What is it?" 

"This place has weather, right?" 

She looked up and around, joining him in what seemed like a pointless search for the sun. It didn't smell like rain either, and he could always smell it long before it happened. "Huh," she said, and he thought he heard a certain tension in her voice, like she was afraid of something. Did she have something to do with this? 

"Maybe we're in the wrong part of town," she suggested. 

He frowned at her. "The wrong part of town to see the sky?" 

She got a churlish look on her face, full lips thinning in distaste. "Hey, the CompTech building blocks the view." 

He shook his head and walked off to his bike, wondering what the hell all of this could mean. It wasn't like the sky had completely disappeared - obviously not - but where the hell was the sun? 

To be fair, the buildings did cluster around here, so close that there was hardly an alley between them; it reminded him of commuters on a bullet train in Tokyo, crammed so tight together no one could move without inadvertently committing third degree assault. But none were bigger than ten stories, so it wasn't like they were lost in a forest of skyscrapers. 

He was really starting to get a bad feeling about this. But it was once they were on the road he saw why. 

The roads in the "downtown" area of Saint Michel were winding, making the urban section a sort of island surrounded by the moats of streets leading into the more pastoral "outskirts" ( although he hated to call them outskirts, as that implied an actual city of some size ), so as soon as he drove about a half mile down the road ( Clia indicated there was a decent coffee shop on the very edge of the city ), they had a wonderfully unobstructed view of the supposedly occluded sky. 

He stopped the bike in the center of the road, and Clia sighed loudly, annoyed. "What's wrong?" 

Logan stood up, not quite sure what he was seeing at first, and ignored her. It looked like there was a wall of heavy grey fog on the horizon, raising straight up to the sky like a funnel cloud, but it was not moving, and it seemed to surround what he could see of this part of Saint Michel like the pathetic little hamlet was permanently stuck in the eye of a static hurricane. He tried to follow it along, look for a crack in the armor or the seam in the wall, but there was none of either. It explained why the sunlight seemed so odd - it was on the other side of the barricade. "What the fuck is this?" He asked her, wondering what she would say. 

He felt her arms go loose around his waist, and for the first time she seemed to notice what he was looking at. "Holy shit, they did it," she exclaimed, then clamped her mouth shut so fast he was surprised she didn't bust any teeth. 

He stared over his shoulder at her, smelling nothing but a sudden, low grade fear. "Who did what?" He wondered if this "they" were the people she was attempting to raise on the phone. 

At first she just stared back at him, trying on a guileless look that didn't quite fit her face. "Paved the road. I never thought - " 

He snarled at her, and that shut her up. Her eyes widened, and she looked at him like he was a crazy person. "Whoa, you get big time into your deal, don't you?" 

If looks could have killed, he'd have had a body to get rid of. "Start talking." 

She glared right back at him, but the undertone of fear was stronger now, heavier. Finally she rolled her eyes and looked away, huffing an impatient sigh through her nose. "Look, it's my stupid ex, okay?" 

"Your ex boyfriend built the Great Wall of Canada?" 

"Oh, he wishes. No, it's not really a wall." 

"Then what the hell is it?" He wondered if his claws would cut through it if he just found the right place. 

"It's a ... well, it's hard to explain." 

"Try." He wondered if she had any idea how dangerous it was to get to the edge of his patience. 

She gave him a petulant look, as if he was making her life difficult on purpose. He didn't want her life story, or the whole saga of her and her stupid ass ex boyfriend: he only wanted to know what the fuck happened to the rest of the world. "It's a reality barrier. I think. Or something like that." 

"What do you mean you think? I thought you knew." 

"Well, I do ... sorta. Look, sue me if I didn't pay attention to the death cult's entire speech - " 

"Death cult?" He interrupted. Oh, this just got better and better. 

But she ignored him. " - because I didn't get into that kinda deal, all right? Keenan always had to attach himself to things to make him feel big, all right? God knows the dick wasn't cutting it." 

He bet. "Keenan? A Belial too?" 

"No, a Human. Demon fucker." Responding to the look on his face, she elaborated: "A guy who likes to fuck demons? I'm sure you've had women who're mutant fuckers - you know, just want the cheap thrill of a roll in the hay with a freak -" 

"Hey!" 

"Well, sorry, Mr. Sensitive. If it's anything, you're the most good looking fr- mutant I've ever met. Really dig the hair helmet; I mean, that takes balls." 

He scowled at her, but - much like with Bob - it was the waste of a good scowl.Maybe the attitude wasn't a Bob thing but a Belial thing: they honestly didn't give a shit what you thought of them at any point. Not that Bob was a real Belial, but hey, maybe some of the pose rubbed off. 

He turned his glare back to their small slice of sky, and asked, "What the hell's a reality barrier?" 

"A barrier to lock out reality. Well, as we know it." 

He shook his head. "You're gonna have to do better than that." 

"I'm not sure I can. Just 'cause I'm a demon doesn't mean I know all this occult shit, all right? I'm from Saskatchewan - what do ya want from me?" 

This was absolutely it. He was never, ever sleeping with a demon again. Once he took a deep breath and got his anger as much under control as possible under the circumstances, he asked, "Where can I find this death cult?" 

She shrugged a single shoulder, acting completely unconcerned. "The fuck if I know. Last time I saw 'em they were in the sewer, but that was just for the ceremony. I didn't ask him where they hung out." 

He wondered if she really was this useless; if so, he could be fully justified in knocking her out and leaving her here. But if she did know something and was simply lying, he'd lose his best chance at info. Oh god damn it - why'd she have to be a Belial? With a boyfriend in a death cult? Better yet, why the hell did he have to end up here, in this nowhere town on the Canadian border, currently being girded with some demonic wall of smog? 

Man, his luck sucked. 

He sighed heavily, and mentally counted to one hundred and ten. He could only promise himself that at some point, if not right now, he would give Clia a piece of his mind. Assuming he could spare it. "Point me to the goddamn sewers," he groused, sitting back down and revving the engine. 

"It's weird how often I've heard that," Clia replied, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

He didn't know if that was a joke or not, but he really didn't care. He just wanted to get the fuck out of here. 

5 

    Bob found them sitting at a table on the back patio, sharing sodas and a bag of chips, and glumly passing around a newspaper. Brendan was sitting to the right of Bobby, and both were sitting opposite Rogue, who sitting on the other bench all by herself. Even though she was wearing a purple long sleeved shirt and black satin opera gloves, it was always a wise decision to keep out of arm's reach. 

It seemed preternaturally kind of them to take the awkward new kids under their wings ( Matt was currently with Xavier, leaving Brendan especially alone ), but Rogue had been new here herself not too long ago, and Bobby would follow her lead. Also, he seemed like a generally nice kid, fairly well adjusted, although Bob couldn't say he knew him very well. Still, he got no bad "vibes" from him. 

As he came over, Rogue and Bobby looked up with awareness, but Brendan just gazed at him curiously, too new to recognize him. Bob noted that his eyes remained red, even though he wasn't in his demon guise, and otherwise Brendan looked as perfectly Human as Rogue and Bobby, with a round, pale face, and a thick shock of short black hair. He was a good looking kid actually, and he wondered if he was going to take this hard or not. 

Bob sat on the bench next to Brendan as Rogue and Bobby greeted him warmly. "Bob," Rogue's boyfriend said, almost like a game show host welcoming a new contestant. 

"Oh hey, does that mean we're havin' a party tonight?" Rogue asked cheerfully. She had to squint a bit, because even though she sat on the bench most shaded from the afternoon sun by a giant oak, when the wind ruffled its branches, sun stabbed down right into her face. Maybe he should offer her some sunglasses. 

"I don't know about that," he said, not committing either way. "What'cha looking at?" 

Bobby passed him the newspaper, and realizing that Bren and him were strangers, said, "Oh, Brendan, this is Bob. Bob, this is Brendan. He's new here." 

"I know. Howdy, mate." 

Brendan looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You're Australian?" 

Bob nodded, unfolding the newspaper. "And you're from Pittsburgh." 

Brendan looked slightly nonplussed. "You a mind reader?" 

"No, he's got this really cool power," Bobby enthused. "He can make people do whatever he wants. He just says it and people do it. I mean, like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis, and Bob was sort of amused that he was slightly envious of his "powers". But, to his credit, it was only slightly. 

Rogue glanced uncomfortably between him and Bob. She hadn't told him he was a demon? Maybe she wasn't sure how to explain it. Bob gave her a small smile, to let her know it was okay. She returned it, but weakly. 

    "Cool," Brendan said. 

"He lectures here sometimes, but he's a friend of Logan's," Rogue offered, as if that explained everything. 

Brendan looked shocked. "Logan has friends?" The kid hadn't met him yet, but had obviously heard stories of the school's "Major Bad Ass". He was already appropriately awed, and was pretty much expecting Logan to be seven feet tall and four hundred pounds of pure muscle, snarling like a angry lion every time he spoke ( if he spoke ), with machetes instead of fingers on his hands. But he had the right mental concept about the hair, he had to give him that. 

Bob glanced at the paper. There was something about a local mutant registration bill trying to be forced through to the Governor's office. "Don't worry, I don't think this will pass. Not this session anyways." 

As he folded it back up and set it aside, Bobby appraised with cool blue eyes, and asked, "You're that certain of humanity?" 

"No, I'm that certain of the current fiscal budget. They don't have the money to implement it now, and they know it." Of course, if there was some "mutant crisis", they could probably get that dough from the state's emergency fund. He hoped that no one was so rabidly prejudiced that they were willing to stage a "crisis" to get that money. But it was a possibility. Still, he wasn't telling the kids that. 

Patches of golden sunlight seemed to appear and disappear on the stained cedar picnic table, as if chasing the black shadows of the branches across the surface, and Bob said, very quietly:"You can't hear this. Bobby, Marie, go inside. Think of a good reason." 

Suddenly Bobby, who had been searching the bag for the last of the potato chips, looked at Rogue and said, "I wonder if Amara and Sean are finished playing "Banjo Kazooie"." 

Rogue cocked an eyebrow at him, obviously knowing what he was talking about. "How many times did I kill you in "Goldeneye" last time? Seven, eight?" 

"You cheated." He accused playfully. 

"I did not!" Bob knew she deliberately muffed a kick aimed at Bobby's leg under the table. "Is it my fault Logan knew all about rocket launchers?" 

"Yeah. It's not like you can read up on that stuff." 

"Actually you can, if you know the right websites," Bob said, and when they gave him a surprised look, he gave them a wink and a smile. Of course he was serious, but it was bad enough that they were kids and one of them actually knew all about rocket launchers. At least it was through Logan's memories, and nothing she had had to learn herself. 

"Last one there has to be Ivan," Rogue said, getting up from the table and sprinting off to the house. 


	3. Part 3

"Hey - I am not gonna be Ivan again!" Bobby shouted, getting up and running after her. 

Bob shook his head, and wondered if he'd ever been as cute as those two. Well, metaphorically speaking; he knew physically he met with general wide approval. He looked over at Brendan, who was busy feeling like the odd man out, and asked him, "Is there some place you always wanted to go, Bren?" 

Brendan eyed him warily, which he expected. Since when do strange men ask you questions like that without being a molester or a guidance counselor? "Huh?" 

"Any place in the world you always wanted to see? At all? The pyramids at Giza? The Eiffel Tower?" 

Brendan continued to stare at him like he was going to recommend he go to trade school any second. "Why do you wanna know?" 

Bob shrugged nonchalantly, pretending it was not a big deal. "I just think it says a lot about a person. For instance, I've always wanted to go to Ganymede." 

Brendan's forehead creased as he wondered if Bob was an imbecile. "You mean some place in Europe?" 

"No, Ganymede, the largest moon of Jupiter. Sounds fun." 

He grimaced at him sourly, figuring he was shitting him. "So what are you, a big sci - fi geek?" 

"Oh yes. I was once married by a Spock impersonator in Vegas." At his disbelieving look, he said, "Come on, I've made my embarrassing admission - your turn." 

He looked away, further down the garden where some of the younger kids were playing a game that looked like a combination of softball and dodgeball, and said, "Cabo San Lucas." 

Bob felt just a tad disappointed. "The frat party tourist trap?" 

Brendan shrugged, looking away, now slightly embarrassed. "It's just looked cool on MTV, that's all." 

He sighed, shaking his head. "Those Belials at MTV ... " 

"What?" 

"Nothing. You want Cabo San Lucas? Okay. You won't feel a thing." 

"What?" He repeated, this time sounding more startled. 

But Brendan had something new to be startled about, as he had transported them to the hardwood deck of a  tourist trap restaurant with a view of the ocean that didn't show the pollution, except as perhaps a dark streak near the horizon of the otherwise clear blue water. They were seated at a small round plastic deck table, a green and white parasol shading them from the unforgiving Mexican sun, and no one around them thought their appearance was surprising, because as far as they knew they'd always been here. There were four couples at the surrounding table, all white of course, but slowly turning the color of a lobster since their sunscreens just weren't cutting it. 

Brendan looked around frantically, not exactly hyperventilating, but close. "How in the hell - where in the hell - " 

"We're in Cabo, Bren. That's another power of mine - teleporting. If I concentrate and are very careful about not shunting us into another universe, I'm golden." 

Brendan stared at him, not so much disbelieving as unsure if he dared to believe him. "What the fuck are you?" 

Bob grinned, and a short, slender Mexican waiter in a short red jacket came over to their table. Before he could ask if they wanted something, Bob told him, in perfect Spanish: "Just bring us a couple of the artificially colored "mocktails" you added to your menu to please the spa spill over crowd. But nothing too sweet." 

The waiter nodded agreeably and went away without a word. Brendan was still staring at him like he'd grown a new and grotesque head from the center of his brow. "You're Mexican now?" He asked, wondering what his next disorienting trick was going to be. 

"Technically, mate, I'm a little bit of everything because I'm not actually anything." Brendan's jaw didn't exactly slacken, but he glared at him like he had just put on a spangly party frock, pulled out a chainsaw, and asked him if he wanted to play "saw the tail on the donkey". The kid would have run, but he didn't know his way around the place, and figured his mutation was strong enough to help him here. "I know you think I'm on meth, but I assure you I am not, although this next question might make you think so:do you believe in demons?" 

Poor Brendan. He was on the verge of throwing a chair at him. "Demons?" His red eyes widened, and a tiny blue vein began to throb in his temple. "Are you some religious nutjob, is that it? Does Xavier know you kidnapped me?" 

"I haven't kidnapped you. And believe me, I can't stand those extremely pious religious folk. I mean, I can abide the ones that mean well, but the ones who try to nail shoes to the native's feet and indulge in inquisitions and " Our god is better than your god"  pissing matches just make me spit sparks. I can't stand them. Like those idiots who claim that the Bible - that Belial fun factory - supports their notion that mutants are devil spawn, and conversely, the mutant supremacists who say it supports their claim normal Humans are inferior dildos. If I can give ya a bit of wisdom, Bren, it's this: never rely on mythology to bolster your arguments, because mythology - like most history - is subjective, and like all things subjective, the truth may be a bit on the scanty side." 

Brendan just stared at him, hands flat on the table, his body posture tense, a muscle in his jaw pulling taut. If he wasn't so frightened of him, he would have tried to punch him. "You're a crazy man." 

"No, not really. I'm a Belial demon, Bren, a very old one, in spite of my appearance. And don't think the word demon instantly means bad, 'cause it don't: just like there's good and bad people, there's good and bad demons. I'm one of the good guys, trust me. Would Xavier let me around the kids if I was?" He wasn't about to add that Xavier actually couldn't stop him even if he wanted to, because he could push him as easily as the next non - telepath. But that would be counterproductive. 

Brendan opened his mouth to call him a crazy person again, but shut it as their waiter came back with their bright red drinks in tall, vaguely opalescent plastic glasses, with small plastic spears of canned fruit chunks added for decoration. As he set them down in front of them, Bob gave him a polite smile. "Thanks, Hector." 

Hector did a slight double take, as he knew he hadn't told them his name, but he quickly forgot about it and moved on along his rounds. Bob made a mental note to leave him a nice big tip in American money since he was just working this shit job to support his orphaned siblings. "I don't have to tell you life isn't fair, Bren - you know that very well," he continued, picking up his glass, already sweating from the heat. "But I have some shit to tell you that I know is gonna go down like a lead balloon. So you're just gonna have to trust me that it will all work out in the end, all right?" 

Of course the poor kid didn't - how  could he? - so Bob didn't give him a push more than a nudge into a more receptive ( and calmer ) state of mind before he broke it down to the kid: demons did exist, in a fashion, and oops, he was half one. At least he was half Brachen demon, probably the nicest demons you had going, although their spikey green and red facade generally gave people who could only see the surface of things the opposite impression. 

What he wasn't going to tell the kid was not only was life not fair, but sometimes some people had everything stacked against them for no reason at all, except entropy needed to even itself out somewhere. 

It was too bad Logan wasn't around to act as a case in point. 

6 

    At least it was a dry part of the sewer. 

Not that that made the smell any better. Hell no - the only way to make a sewer smell better - no matter how clean it seemed - was to firebomb it, preferably with a high ignition temperature, so the place could be charred down to bedrock. And even then the sludge would probably reek. 

He could smell some of what had gone on here too; the place still stank of demon blood and guts, even though they had pressure hosed it out. "How many people did they kill?" He wondered. He smelled the blood of almost a dozen different demons here, but some of the scents mixed in with others that must have been passing through. 

Clia, standing near the mouth of the tunnel, had her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a sour look on her face that suggested she had places to be as of ten minutes ago. "I don't know. As soon as I saw how lame the festivities were, I left." 

"Festivities?" He sighed and shook his head. "You're a hard case, you know that?" 

"Me?" She scoffed. "That's rich, comin' from the growling guy who beats the shit outta people, then goes trolling for a one night stand." 

"Who smelled blood on me and picked me up anyways?" 

"Oh come on, I'm a demon - what do you expect from me?" 

"Better. I ain't a civilian; I don't buy that excuse."  Since they'd cleaned the place up good, there was no physical evidence of anything, but under the scent of demon, he smelled Humans - a lot more Humans than he'd have expected. He suddenly had a very unsettling thought. "Are there any demons in the death cult?" 

She shrugged, and stared at one of the cement walls like they were interesting. "Maybe a few. I didn't count." 

"What the fuck kind of idiot Human joins a death cult?" 

"Hey, it's Saint Michel. What else is there to do?" 

Unbelievable. He wasted a glower on her again, but it was so dark in here she probably didn't notice. "If finding the fucking cult  is impossible, then give me somethin' on this reality barrier. What the hell does it do? How do we collapse it or get through it?" 

She sighed and shook her head, as if he was being an impossible man, and put her hands on her hips, thrusting her breasts forward in a distracting manner. It helped that the orange t - shirt she wore was so tight it looked painted on. Conversely, her pants were loose enough that they sagged at the waist, and he could see a bit of the red lace fringe on her underwear. And did she have a pierced belly button last night? 

Well, how the hell was he supposed to know? 

"I already told you, just 'cause I'm a demon - " 

"Fine. You have to know someone who knows all this occult shit." 

She made a show of thinking about it, head cocked to one side, staring up at a point somewhere over his head. "Well ... " 

"Don't try any Belial shit with me," he warned. How did he end up here? All he wanted to do was get away from the supposed "X Men" and forget everything, forget all this shit - 

( forget Mariko ) 

- and yet here he was, hip deep in crap again. Maybe he should have gone back to Bob's cabin again. Or maybe he should have gone after Naomi. Or just gone to the States or Mexico or something. 

He should never have come back to Canada. He should have stayed at the mansion with the super duper hero squad; they never dealt with shit like this. 

*** 

    Rachel stood outside the club, smoking a cigarette, wondering if she was a racist. Specist? Oh, fuck if she knew the exact terminology. 

When she got this job at Club Exstacy, she thought it would be a dream gig: cool club, hot guys, gratis drinks - a party every night. But the reality was a bit jarring. 

Slowly but surely, mutants were taking over the club. 

Oh, at first you hardly noticed them; the really freaky looking ones wouldn't dare venture out in public. But more and more, they started coming, and the more that showed, the more the creepy ones dared to show  their faces. If they had faces. 

She shuddered at the thought. 

They were mostly kids. This place tended young, and in spite of claims that underage drinking never took place, nearly half the kids were never checked for i.d. - why would you card a mutant anyways? Half those fuckers could be any age at all, if they were, and who really cared if they killed whatever brain cells they had? 

She wondered where they were coming from, and the other night a blottoed mutie  with webbed fingers and what looked like skin flaps on his neck  ( had he actually claimed they were gills? ) told her there was a mutant private school around these parts. Was that true? She'd never heard of one, but these kids all had to be coming from somewhere, and she didn't think there were group homes set up to take those kinds of things. 

But could their be teachers for them? Would they be normal people? God, how could they stand it? Being locked in a room with those ... things. 

Just the other night, some drunken mutie with a big yellow horn in the middle of his forehead, like a fucking unicorn , actually offered to buy her a drink. The fuck actually made a pass at her! It was disgusting. Even if she was blind drunk and lost the biggest bet in the world, she wouldn't even sit at the same table with that fucking freakazoid, nonetheless have a drink with him. Just because the manager was a mutie sympathizer - he didn't care if they had three asses and seven legs, as they paid in cash - didn't mean she was. 

Sound started shaking the outside walls - someone was using an Audioslave CD to test the new sound system - and she stepped out from beneath the sickly green shadow of the neon sign over the doorway. She didn't know why they couldn't smoke inside - he let the customers do it. 

But technically the club wasn't open yet. It opened at seven PM, and there was an hour and a half to go. Most of the traffic had thinned on the narrow street before the club, as the rush hour on the major thoroughfares brought everything to a virtual standstill, and only the locals with a good knowledge of the twisting and badly misnamed streets ( no one ever explained how 234th street could suddenly become Sprague Avenue, and then, two blocks later, become 239th street? It made no sense at all ) could get anywhere at all. The parking lot was all but empty, save for the three cars of the manager, the bartender, and the beer delivery driver's van. She came in on the bus, along with another server, Brenda. They were both poor students who couldn't afford a car, and besides, in this congested area it seemed like an unnecessary hassle to have one. 

If she could get a better job she'd leave this freak hole in a second. Oh sure, her parents were footing her tuition, but even she had to eat sometimes. And so far this was all she could get. Maybe she really had to push that resume .... 

She was glancing across the street at that frou frou clothing boutique, with that nice leather coat in the window display that she couldn't afford in a million years, when she saw dark movement out of the corner of her eye. 

She started slightly, her cigarette dropping from her fingers as she saw a man walking across the street towards the lot - a man who appeared straight out of nowhere. 

And maybe he wasn't a man. 

He was vaguely shaped like one. A tall ( well over six feet .Seven feet? ) man with a barrel chest and extremely broad shoulders swamped in a huge and oily looking black coat that could have been giant wings enfolding him. He wore all dark clothing, but in a strange way it was hard to say for sure - it was as if looking at him was painful, like staring into the heart of a black sun. From what she could tell, his hair was strange too, more like a lion's mane than a regular hairstyle, a gleaming black halo that surrounded a face .. a face ... 

She couldn't see it. For some reason she couldn't see it. She got an impression of a wide, regal brow, and eyes ... they glowed. They were spots of fierce yellow against shadow black,suns on the verge of eclipse. She had to look away because her eyes stung like ash had blown back in them, but when she dared to look back she started at street level, gazing at his black leather knee boots. 

And his companions. 

She thought they had to be dogs - they were heeled so obediently at his side they must have been - but they were huge, at least four feet tall and nearly twice as long, their thick coats of fur as black as ink. They had wicked tapered muzzles with long pink tongues lolling, revealing ivory teeth as serrated as blades, and eyes as yellow as their master's. 

Wolves, she thought, they're wolves. But since when do wolves have black fur and glowing yellow eyes? 

Something fluttered in the air, and she dared to look up, just in time to see what must have been a raven settle on the man's shoulder. But it was bigger than any raven she had ever seen, closer in size to a vulture, and its ebony beak looked grotesquely elongated, more like stilettos than a beak. The massive bird cocked its head, and fixed her with an eye like a drop of oil, somehow blacker than its feathers ,and more intelligent than it had a right to be. 

"Smoking, my dear woman?" The man said, although his voice was strange: it was like he was speaking to her from a deep well of fire, his voice deep and resonate, but crackling like dried leaves underfoot. She tried to look at him again, but this time she winced and shut her eyes, as it seemed like needles stabbed into her brain. "Don't you know that's bad for your health?" 

It felt like ice water had spilled down Rachel's spine, a cold shock, but she couldn't move. He was coming towards her, the panting of the wolves almost louder than the music coming from the club, and she thought even if she could scream they'd never hear her over the stereo. 

Fucking mutie, her mind screamed, fucking freak bastard! But even as she thought that, she thought he might be worse than that, but what could possibly be worse than a mutie? 

He chuckled, a sound like a wildfire through underbrush, the voice of fire itself. She didn't know why, but she had a feeling the state of her health was about to become irrelevant. 

*** 

    Rogue still didn't understand why Kitty didn't want to come, but at least she was nice enough to phase her through the wall. 

Scott was always over reacting to something, and she didn't see how this was any different. Okay, a bunch of people got killed at that movie theater ( which was probably an endorsement for the mall cineplex ), but she didn't get how that might be "a threat to their safety". They were mutants - weren't they always under threat? And besides, this was New York - people were killed every day. It was sad, but it was life., didn't that killer strike at night? It wasn't proper dark yet, just that weird in between time, just after the sun set, but before the stars came out. The sky was like that midnight blue color of the velvet lining of Juli's jewelry box. 

Bobby was supposed to sneak out and meet her at Exstacy, but he already warned her he might be late: Scott seemed to be watching him like a hawk lately, proving he had absolutely no sense of humor about that ice sculpture. Well, it wasn't like it was really obscene, and everyone else thought it was funny. 

She had just walked up to the corner of Sprague Avenue when she noticed the flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the windows of the record store on the end of the next block. Police lights? 

She proceeded up the block towards Club Exstacy with a sinking feeling in her gut, which was confirmed the moment she turned the corner, and saw an entire fleet of police cars and ambulances cordoning off the parking lot of Exstacy, putting out sawhorses as some unlucky cops tried to hold the small but nosy crowd back. 

"Clear out," she heard one crabby cop say, as she quickly joined the crowd. Most of the obvious mutants had disappeared at the sight of the heavy police presence, so the crowd was mainly made of normals and mutants that could pass as normals. She was glad she went with her full length black duster, which she pulled shut around her before shouldering her way to the front of the crowd. 

As she reached the front, they were finishing putting the last of the sawhorses in place, but before she could be pushed back and one of the ambulances backed up to block her view, she saw a white sheet covered lump on the ground near the front of the club. A body of course, a small one, that had left a big bloody stain  
in the center, bogging down the sheet as it ruffled in the slight breeze. 

The body looked concave in the middle, like it had no stomach at all, and that's where the biggest bloodstain was. Weren't the bodies that Scott and Jean found kinda like that? 

Some tall guy in the crowd jostled her on the right as some cop built like a fireplug shover a sawhorse hard into place and shouted, "Disperse now or I'm takin' your names!" 

She quickly slipped to the back of the crowd that did indeed start to thin, with a collective groan of disappointment, and she realized there was a funny smell in the air. 

Of course there was blood, possible to smell even over the exhaust of all the emergency vehicles, but there was an undertone of something else, something sharp and ... weird. Burning; it smelled like someone had burned something. But the club wasn't on fire, and there were no fire trucks, so what was it? 

She couldn't place it at all - absorbing Logan twice had still not been enough to capture his vast ( and somewhat frightening ) vocabulary of smells, but she wasn't sure it was some vestigial trace of Logan's ability she was experiencing here. Maybe it was from the last demon she absorbed, some shred of memory tugging at her, but since it wasn't her memory to start with she couldn't even begin to put a name to it. 

Demons? Was that what happened here? Just as she turned back towards the club, now all but hidden by the ambulances, she felt a sudden chill that was anything but physical. She looked around slowly, carefully, scanning the street, sure now that she was being watched; they were all being watched. 

But by what? The thing that did this? 

Even while mentally blaming Logan's paranoia for this, she asked aloud, "Does anyone have a cell phone I can borrow?" She'd never take one of the Institute's ones - just  like the cars, they could be traced ( she'd heard Logan tell Jean that's why he didn't want one ). 

A young guy, maybe five years older than her, said, "Sure honey, you can use mine." He was plain looking, with a pale, slightly pimply face and heavily styled mud brown hair, who smirked at her like he thought he was the biggest stud in the world. Yeah, whatever. "Thanks," she said blandly, not even giving him a smile. Mutant or Normal, he didn't get the hint, he just continued to leer at her, clearly staring at her breasts despite the fact that they were still hidden beneath her duster, and she scowled at him as she plucked the Nokia from his hand and turned her back on him to make the call. He was probably still listening, but that couldn't be helped - it was his phone after all. 

The phone was picked up on the second ring, and before she could say a single thing, Xavier said: "What have you been told about sneaking off the grounds, Marie?" 

It was freaky how he did that. "I know, I'm sorry. Look - I'm outside Club Exstacy now, and it looks like a bunch of people got killed, just like that movie theater last night." Only now did she realize she was so scared her hands were shaking, and she could feel tears in her eyes. But why was she freaking out so bad? In her short but whacked out life, she'd seen more dead things than she would ever care to think about. But there was something near by ... something really scary; something these cops with all their guns couldn't even begin to handle ... "I need Bob. Is Bob there?" 

Xavier was quiet for a moment, but for him that was equal to an eternity. "Are you there alone?" Now he was scared for her, and that was never a good thing. 

"Yeah. I was supposed to meet up with someone - " She wasn't going to name Bobby, even if everyone could guess. " - but they're not here. Is Bob there, Professor? I really think he needs to be here." She knew Bob had only showed up to talk to Brendan because he was a demon, not a mutant, but he seemed pretty cool, so she figured he was one of the nice ones. But she had no idea how long that would take, or if he was going to come back to the mansion - Bob or Brendan. 

Now Rogue knew she was visibly shaking, but she couldn't help it. Whatever had done this was waiting close by, she just knew it, and he was waiting for .. what? 

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. 

"Marie," Xavier began, and he was using his "remain calm" voice that made her want to start screaming now. "I want you to listen to me carefully. I want you to - " But of course she was barely hearing him anymore. Some sort of vestigial animal/demon bit in her brain was in full blown panic mode now, and it was almost impossible for her to contain it. And even if any of the others - Jean, Scott, Storm, hell, even Logan, wherever the hell he was - showed up, she didn't think it would help. She really got the feeling that only Bob could hope to hold back this thing .. whatever it was ... 

Suddenly the phone was plucked out of her hand, and as she pivoted on her heels to protest, she found herself looking into Bob's chest. "I'm here, Chuck, I'll get her back to the mansion," he said smoothly into the phone. "And don't send anyone unless I tell you to. We'll be there momentarily." He then closed it and handed it back to the guy, who wasn't at all startled that Bob was suddenly there, and was content to ogle her. 

"Stick to legal girls, mate," Bob told him, and then frowned. "Give me that." 

Bob grabbed the guy's coat and opened it, and yet he seemed oblivious to it, in that way that only Bob could do it. Bob pulled a small brown bottle out of his inner pocket - cough syrup? - and said darkly, "Get lost, and lay off the meds, asshole." 

The man just walked away as if dismissed, like he hadn't really comprehended a single thing Bob had said, but she knew he had. He was just zoned out, or whatever it was he did to people. 

Although she was so happy to see him she could have hugged him ( but that was dangerous, right? ), she was a little confused about the bottle. "What's that?" She wondered, as he suddenly threw it towards the roof of the store across the street. She heard it shatter on impact, a small noise nearly drowned out by the crackle of police radios. 

"GBH. Some wankers need all the help they can get." He looked down at her, and she wondered if he was wearing a "Mr. Bungle" t - shirt when she last saw him. She didn't think so ... but it was funny how Bob could make your memory falter. "Do me a favor, and never let a guy get ya a drink. There's a lotta fucks like that out there." 

"Are you my dad now?" She replied, although not too harshly. She was glad he was here, and he probably had a point. And that feeling - whatever it had been - was gone. Maybe Bob's sudden appearance had scared him off. 

"No, but I'm old enough to be your thrice great granddad at least, so humor me." 

"Thrice?" She repeated, trying to do the math in her head. But she gave up, as she was no good at math, and she had yet to absorb anyone with a real gift for it. 

The crowd parted easily for Bob, as if they sensed him coming and moved aside, and he walked past the sawhorse barricades like he didn't notice them. She followed him closely, wondering how he was going to play this. 

A big cop with dark skin, younger than the fireplug guy who nearly hit her with a barricade, quickly moved to intercept Bob. "Sir, you have to get - " 

Bob held his hand up towards him, palm out, and said, in an American accent: "I'm Agent Mulder from the F.B.I. Mutant Crime Division. We heard there might be a mutant connection to this crime scene." 

The man blinked rapidly, and glanced at Bob's empty hand, scouring it like he was really looking at a badge and wanted to make sure it was legit. "How'd you get here so fast?" He asked, stunned but not disbelieving. 

There was a Mutant Crime Division at the F.B.I. ? 

"We were in the area; I was doing a follow up on the Lensherr case." He gestured to her casually. "This is my partner, Agent Scully. Can you give us an idea of what happened here, Detective Hendricks?" 

Rogue worked hard to stifle a laugh. Mulder and Scully. She thought that sounded familiar. 

"Of course," the man named Hendricks agreed. "Come with me." 

As he led them past the ambulances, Rogue asked, "Could you get us backstage at a concert?" 

"No door is closed to me." He said. That was sort of an answer. 

"Cool." 

"From what we can tell, the assailants seemed to have attacked this woman first, a club waitress tentatively identified as Rachel Crawford, twenty two," Hendricks reported dispassionately, sounding like a cop on one of those procedural crime shows. He led them to the covered body before the door, with the concave bloody stomach, and both the cop and Bob crouched down beside it, avoiding the splatters of blood dotting the pavement. She didn't join them, and almost didn't want to see it, but she kind of had to, you know? 

Hendricks lifted a corner of the sheet ... and she suddenly found herself looking away. What? 

"I'd hate to be flippant and say cause of death was a missing abdomen," Hendricks was saying, " but that's her only obvious external injury." 

"Someone ripped her guts out," Bob said. He sounded like he was lost in thought, and not at all grossed out. 

Rogue tried to turn back, but found herself unable to do so. She just kept staring at a Honda with a "Bite me, it's fun!" bumper sticker, which had taken on a sick irony at the moment. "Bob!" She snapped, annoyed. He was doing this to her, wasn't he? The bastard - he wasn't letting her look at the body. 

But Bob ignored her, and Hendricks didn't seem to hear her. "Were all the victims killed in a similar manner?" 

"No. Some had their necks broken, and some had both, making us wonder which killed them first." 

"Stop it, Bob! I can handle it!" 

He still ignored her. "But that's it? Any idea on the number of assailants?" 

"No idea. There were five people in the club, all but one men, and two of those guys were pretty ripped. They couldn't have been easily taken down." 

"But there were no signs of a struggle, were there?" 

"No. There's a lot of damage - broken tables and bottles, a shattered speaker - but none of the victims have anything approaching defensive injuries." 

"So this is just like the theater killings." 

"Yeah. Except the killers seemed to leave a mark this time, although we have no idea what it's supposed to mean. Spinoza thinks it might be a gang symbol, but it's atypical to say the least." 

"Show it to me." 

Rogue suddenly found herself looking down at the body as Hendricks put the bloody sheet back in place, and she took a swing at Bob, who still managed to avoid it. "I could have handled it," she said angrily. "I wanted to see it!" 

"Maybe, but I didn't want to see it, and I had to. Believe me, love, you're better off." 

She didn't, and glowered at him, but he had turned to follow the Detective into the club, and she followed, wondering if he'd let her see anything this time. 

As soon as they went in, she realized that Bob may have had a point. 

The smell alone was enough to make her want to turn around and leave. While it was bad out there, it was open air and a single body; in here, it was a closed space with several bodies. The blood smell was terrible, and it wasn't only that; there was a smell of shit she couldn't account for, and that burned smell again, concentrated inside the club, and something else, a smell she couldn't identify to save her life. Maybe Bob had a name for it, maybe Logan had a name for it, but she didn't, and couldn't even begin to guess, save to say it was simply wrong. 

In regular light, the interior of the club looked tacky, and right now it looked like Sabertooth and Toad had had some kind of mass, violent freak out in here: everything that could be broken was, and there was so much broken glass and wood on the floor that the police investigators and coroners ( ? ) had to step carefully, and even still so crunched around everything. 


	4. Part 4

Three of the bodies were on the dance floor, two covered with those bloody sheets that bogged down in the middle, while a third just must have had a broken neck. There was a body on the small stage too, covered by a clean sheet, but the body half on the bar was covered by a bloody sheet that didn't quite hide the man's legs, which dangled loosely over the side. There were blood stains all over his white Nikes. 

Rogue felt kind of sick, but blamed it on the smell. 

( If they ripped out these people's guts, where were they? ) 

"There it is," Hendricks said, pointing across the club to the door of the men's room. 

At first she didn't see what he was talking about. The men's room door was painted a pearlescent teal, a really nauseating color in normal lighting conditions, and it looked like there was a dark stain on it. A bloody handprint? 

That was her first thought, but the more she stared at it, she realized it couldn't have been a print - no fingers, and an odd shape. Like a flame, kind of, but sideways ... and definitely made in blood. 

"Do you have any idea what that might be?" Hendricks asked Bob. 

Bob canted his head to one side, studying it intensely. After a moment, he said, "It's a flaming wolf's head." 

Rogue stared at the stain, and slowly began to see what Bob had seen. Yes, those tiny flames on the side could be flattened back ears, and that gap could be a mouth ... an open muzzle ... the flames inside teeth. Now it seemed obvious, and she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before. 

Hendricks studied it too, and she could tell by the way his jaw muscles lost their rigidity that he was finally seeing it too. "Shit," he gasped. "So it is some sort of gang symbol?" 

"No." It was the way Bob said that made her look at him. The look on his face was unsettling; now his jaw was tensed, and there was a seriousness and an intensity in his eyes and posture that was rare to see on Bob. He always seemed loose and cool, even if he was facing off with big bad uglies. Logan was the coiled spring; Bob was the well oiled machine. But now Bob seemed all coiled up. "It's a totem." 

"What?" Hendricks asked, and Rogue was content to let the cop do the asking for her. She wanted to get out of here right now, before she barfed her dinner down her duster. 

"A calling card; the sigil of an unearthly being. I think it's safe to say this case is way out of your jurisdiction, Detective." Bob looked down at her then, and said, "Come on, I'll get you back home." 

She nodded, swallowing back bile. It was weird to think of the mansion as home now, but she supposed she did, in a strange sort of way. 

As soon as they were outside, Bob said quietly, "Take deep breaths; it'll pass." 

She did, and the nausea did seem to ebb. But she thought that was due to Bob more than the fresh air. "It's a demon, isn't it?" She said, as soon as she could speak again. It was a stupid thing  to say, but he wasn't volunteering any information. 

They stopped beside an ambulance, hidden by the vehicle from the small gathering of ghoulish rubberneckers, and the look Bob gave her chilled her to the core. His cobalt eyes were nearly glowing with rage, and she didn't know they could ever do a glowy thing. "No, Marie." He hesitated before he admitted, "It's a god." 

Oh shit. 

7 

    Although it was bad enough to be dragged to a bakery that called itself "Let Them Eat Cake", he supposed it made sense that the owner wasn't Human.It smelled a lot better than the sewer, but he still felt silly going into a bakery with white lace curtains and gleaming white surfaces, with glass cases full of fancy decorated cakes and pastries that looked far too fancy and elaborate to eat. 

"Monique!" Clia shouted, in case the gentle jingling of the brass chimes over the door wasn't enough to alert the owner she had company. "Hey, put down the eclairs! I got a big ugly mutant here!" 

"Ugly? I thought you said - " 

"Well your attitude is ugly," she interrupted. 

He stared at her. He could have said he was just down in a sewer - a really smelly sewer - where a bunch of people got killed, just so a bunch of sicko Humans could trap the town in a funnel, or whatever the hell it was, and he had been there with a woman who could have stopped it but didn't, and she dared to call his attitude ugly? But he didn't bother, because indignation - no matter how righteous- was always wasted on Belials. 

God, he was insane. Why the fuck had he slept with her? Assuming he had - really, he had no idea, and that just made it worse. 

"You shout too much," a Quebec accented voice called from the back. 

"She loves the sound of her own voice," Logan snapped, casting a sour frown in Clia's direction. 

But she didn't notice - she was peering in one of the glass cases, looking at a line up of eclairs on French lace doilies, all topped with huge dollops of whipped cream that still managed to support Maraschino cherries without falling over. How they managed he had no idea. "Of course I do, honey - I'm a Belial." 

"I ain't tellin' ya again: that doesn't cut it with me." 

"She's an irresponsible girl who likes to blame everything but herself for her failings," the woman who must have been Monique said, coming out of the back. She looked like a grandmotherly sort in a flour dusted apron, with a white chef's hat lolling on her head like a collapsed soufflé, but the closer you got, the more you realized something was off. Maybe it was the fact that her skin was actually covered in scales, and the hair peeking from beneath the hat was a virulent, neon sort of green. Her eyes looked clouded over with cataracts too, her pupils and irises just shadows beneath the white haze, but he knew she was looking straight at him. It was some time before he guessed they were semi - translucent inner eyelids. "Is there something I can help you with?" 

"I want an eclair. And what do you call those things near the back?" Clia said. 

"What the hell's a reality barrier?" He asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Did she have ADHD, was that her problem? Or did Clia really not care about the shit going down out there? 

"It is a barrier that keeps us separated from reality as we know it," Monique replied, then said to Clia, "You haven't paid me for the torte you had last time." 

"Oh, come on," she replied. "You know I'm good for it." 

"Okay, I got that," Logan replied testily. "Out of reality, fine. What the fuck does that mean in layman's terms? Is there a way through it?" 

"Not without collapsing it." 

"How do you collapse it?" 

Monique shrugged. "Kill the thing keeping it in place, I suppose." 

"What thing is keeping it in place?" 

She rolled her shoulders again, and only this time did Logan notice that, under her white baker's smock, her shoulder seemed to have an extra joint. "I don't know. I suppose you'd have to ask the warlock who put it up." 

"It wasn't a warlock, it was a stupid cult," Clia said, digging in the front pocket of her baggy jeans. She pulled out a badly wrinkled ten and threw it on the counter. "Can I have an eclair now?" 

Monique frowned at the money, and then gave Clia a stern, maternal sort of glance. "Do you know your underwear is showing?" 

Clia shrugged. "Oughta. You know how expensive it was?" 

Monique's frown became even sterner, lips thinning to a very grim slit. "How do you know it was a cult, Clia?" 

"She was there," Logan said, not sure she would tell the truth. She was Belial, after all. 

"I wasn't," she lied, but after Monique crossed her arms over her chest, her posture alone saying " Try and pull the other one", Clia rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air. "Look, Keenan invited me to this thing, all right? As soon as I found out it was some lame sacrifice thing, I left!" 

"Lame sacrifice thing?! Girl, you had to know that was some bad mojo!" 

"But they were limp dicked asshole geek Humans - how the fuck was I supposed to know they'd accidentally get it right?" 

"That is no excuse! You should have done something!" 

"What? Say "stop this" and get ignored by the creeps in their white bathrobes? Or maybe get myself served up on a platter to their whatever the hell?" 

Logan scoffed. "Like they wouldn't spit you out." 

"Fuck you, claw guy!" 

"Hey!" 

Monique let out a high pitched noise, a sound like a tea kettle whistling in the super sonic range, and both he and Clia cringed, although only Logan covered his ears. Once they had both shut up, Monique looked between them, her protective inner eyelid open, allowing them to see her round black irises and oval blue pupils. "That is enough from you, girl. You should have done something, but you didn't. If this man wants to bring down the wall, then the least you can do is help him try and correct this problem." 

"What makes you think - " Clia began, but Monique didn't let her finish. 

"Don't you dare try and pull that "stupid" act on me. I am your grandmother and I know damn well how bright you are. Think of it as atonement, Clia; think of it as a way to get back into the family. Fix this. Or no one will ever bail you out of anything again." 

Grandmother? But Monique wasn't a Belial ... was Clia only part Belial? 

Clia seemed to pout, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "If this is serious mojo, Gran, how in the hell do you expect me and this lame ass Human to do anything but be cannon fodder?" 

"Lame ass?" He repeated sourly, dropping his hands to his sides. Those were fighting words, although frankly any words were fighting words right now - she was really bugging the hell out of him. 

"Your gift, which you have always misused, is that you are very clever, girl. Clever and blessed with the charm of the Belials. With your guile and this man's abilities, there's no reason why you couldn't bring an end to this." 

Clia scoffed, and gestured to him dismissively. "What abilities? Yeah, he's a mutant with claws and a 'tude that could curdle milk, but he's still Human - he'll go down with the rest of 'em." 

"He's been touched by the supernatural. Haven't you?" 

Logan was mildly surprised to find Monique addressing him. They were talking like he had suddenly become invisible or something. "No. I mean ... what do ya mean by touched?" 

"Gran," Clia wheedled, in a voice that made her sound like a petulant teenager. 

But Monique, lowering her inner eyelids, would have none of it. Despite the name of her shop, he found he liked her better than Clia right now. "Do it. I will help you if I can, but I am a two hundred year old woman and my joints hurt whenever it rains. It's up to you, Clia, whether you like it or not." 

Two hundred years old? 

Clia groaned like she'd been asked to take out the garbage, letting her chin drop to her chest, and finally sighed, "All right. But if I get killed you explain it to Mom." 

"Done. Now what would you like? You look hungry." 

Again, he was taken aback to find Monique looking through cloudy lids at him. "Huh? Thanks, but I'm good." 

"No you're not. I heard your stomach growl." 

"It must have been hers." 

She shook her head and smiled in small, grandmotherly sort of way, as she slid open the rear of one of the cases, and pulled out an eclair for Clia. "Look, thanks, but you really haven't told me anything," Logan continued, eager to get to some sort of point. This conversation had veered all over the place, and yet never into the alleys he needed. "It keeps reality out - why? For what purpose?"   

Monique handed Clia the absurdly ornate dessert over the counter, and only afterwards bothered to answer him. "Probably to bring forth a demon that can't survive - as of yet - in this reality. Croissant?" 

"No. So, if it can't survive here, what's the point?" 

"Within this bubble of unreality, it can acclimate, feed and grow stronger, or expand its influence, make the unreality grow. Cruller?" 

"No. " Now her maternal insistence on food was annoying him. "Why is this unreality a problem? Reality kinda sucks, lady, if you haven't noticed." 

"Well, you must understand that by the time it is strong enough to control the unreality bubble, they will control reality as we know it. And one has to assume that isn't good. Cream cake?" 

"Knock it off with the food already!" He roared, and then took a deep breath, pinching his eyelids shut with his fingers. As soon as he was sure he could control himself, he asked, in a low grumble: "So a big bad controls things, is that it? And I assume it eats us all or makes everyone its lap dancers or something?" 

"Something like that. You're too skinny - you should eat something." 

He ignored that, because otherwise he would explode. "Is there any way at all to contact anyone outside the barrier?" 

"No. We no longer exist in reality, and reality no longer exists for us. What about a kaiser roll?" 

"Thank you, but if you offer me another baked good, I think I'm gonna start breakin' things." He sighed, then dared to open his eyes. His threat didn't seem to bother Monique one iota. "I don't suppose there's a demon or a witch around here that could contact a Drai' shajan in spite of that, is there?" 

Her lidded eyes widened in surprise. "A Drai'shajan?" It was hard to read the inflection in her voice, so he wasn't sure if she was surprised he knew the Drai'shajan, or didn't know what a Drai'shajan was ( she could join the club there ). 

"Just a guy I know, Bob. He could probably collapse this thing in a second." 

"Bob?" Clia asked around a mouthful of eclair. She had a spot of whipped cream on the tip of her nose, but hadn't noticed. "Maximum Bob?" 

He looked at her sharply. "You know him?" That might explain everything. 

"Know him? Fuck, he's like a ... a rock star in Belial circles! Man! Are you shitting me? How in the hell do you know him?!" 

"We met once. Can I contact him?" 

Monique shook her head. "Not when reality is out of synch, no." 

"Shit." 

"So what's he like?" Clia asked, and when he raised an eyebrow at her, she elaborated: "Bob." 

He rolled his eyes, and turned towards the door, way past done here. Maybe he could catch a scent of one of the Humans he smelled down in the sewer, track them down and put them into a cooperative, tell all mood.  "He's slightly less annoying than you," Logan snapped, leaving her behind. 

He never thought he'd say that to anyone. Bob was a hard act to follow. 

8 

    "Do you mean some kind of demon god?" Scott asked, still struggling to comprehend all of this. 

They were all assembled in Xavier's study, as was per usual when Bob had bad news to break, with Scott, Jean, and Storm all sharing the big leather couch, Xavier behind his desk, and Bob standing in Logan's usual position by the door. Rogue was curled up in the corner armchair, wondering which of them was the most freaked out by this. 

She was most freaked out that this seemed to make Bob tense. If Bob was ever tense, then you knew you were royally fucked. 

"Like Arakis?" Storm agreed. As always, she was struggling - in vain - to find a bright side. 

Bob, leaning against the door jamb with his muscly arms crossed over his chest ( wow - how had she not noticed those before? ), shook his head, the same tight lipped look on his face that he'd had since they left the club. "No. A higher plane one." 

"A higher plane one that rips people's guts out?" Scott replied incredulously. "What the hell's the difference?" 

"In all honesty, it's mostly semantics. The so called "higher planes" are dimensions that are difficult to reach; by extension, hell dimensions aren't that hard to reach, and there's a buttload of them. The higher realms are rare, and harder to get into than Spago's on Oscar night." 

Scott sighed and ran his hands through his hair, getting a look on his face that one of the foreign students described as "dyspeptic". Sadly, she'd had to look that up. "Fine, whatever. Do you know what's doing this?" 

"Yes, I do. Fenrir." 

They were all quiet for a moment. Bob had said the name like they were supposed to know who that was, but from the puzzled looks they were giving each other, no one did. But the Professor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his hands beneath his chin, and she knew if anyone had a clue, it was him. "Also known as Fenris?" 

Jean sat forward, a startled look on her face, and she looked sharply at Bob. The name meant nothing to the rest of them, but she knew it somehow. "The giant wolf? Loki's son?" 

"You're saying it's a wolf?" Scott asked, with a disgusted snort. Rogue was surprised Bob hadn't hauled off and zapped  
him, or whatever it was he did exactly. He always doubted whatever Bob said, and treated him like he was a joke at best and evil at worst. Bob must have had a hell of a lot more patience than she did. 

"No. Mythology says Fenrir is a gigantic wolf." 

"Who swallows the world and brings about Ragnarok, the death of the gods," Jean explained, looking between all of them. Since when was she so well versed on mythology? 

"Yeah. But keep in my mind mythology usually gets only a fact or two right - consider them the tabloids of the ages." 

"So not a big wolf?" Rogue asked, just for confirmation. 

Bob nodded. "Not a big wolf. He likes wolves, though, and allows a part of himself to often take the shape of a wolf. It was probably in that form he tore those people's guts out." 

Scott's brow furrowed around his black and red visor. "He's a shapeshifter?" 

"Sort of. He's more of a projectionist: psychically manifesting parts of himself in the physical world." 

Scott spoke for all of them. "Huh?" 

"Understand we're dealing with a god here - they can do shit physical realm dwellers can't. And Fenrir always took a great deal of pride in bilocating himself." 

Bilocating? Oh man, did the Professor have a dictionary around here? 

"He can be in two places at once?" Jean asked. Is that what it meant? 

"In a very limited sense. He can bifurcate ... well, actually, more than bi. More like multicate - which I know isn't a word - but only within a limited sphere of influence. About a city block, I'd say." 

"You've dealt with him before," the Professor said, fixing him with his pale blue eyes. It wasn't a question. 

For the first time since she'd known him, Bob looked uncomfortable. He shifted position, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he dug his hands in the front pocket of his leather pants. "Once. It should have been the last time too." 

"Will your knife work on him? Like it did on Heydon?" Scott asked, hands clenching nervously in his lap. 

Bob shook his head.  "Only works on demons. As I said, Fenrir isn't one." 

"So why is he killing these people?" Storm asked. 

"And why is he after us?" Scott added. 

"Have you ever heard of people sacrificing to gods? I think Fenrir is taking his own - he has a penchant for livers. That's why there's never any guts at the scene." 

He was eating them? Rogue covered her mouth with her hand. Oh god, she was going to be sick. 

"I thought the people did it, not the gods," Storm asked, brows drawing down in confusion. 

"If Fenrir doesn't get, he takes." 

"But he's after us for what reason?" Scott urged impatiently. 

Bob sighed, sagging back against the wall heavily. "He's not after you. He's after me." 

Everyone exchanged confused glances before Scott admitted, "I don't understand. He's been killing people in spots we are known to frequent before we get there, not spots you are known to frequent." 

"But he must know I have been associated with you. These killings were in hopes of making you contact me. Mission accomplished." 

Scott seemed to stiffen, as if someone had hit the "stick up his butt" switch. "Does that mean he's coming here? We - " 

"If he had really wanted to kill you, he'd have completely obliterated the lot of you, and none of your powers would have done any good - you can't fight a god. Especially one as powerful and psychotic as Fenrir. You have never been the real target, just a way of gaining my attention." 

"Why would he want to do that?" Scott wondered, the suspicion so obvious in his voice he may as well have just called him a fucking liar outright. 

He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as if in defeat. "I'll try and make a long story short. Fenrir had a chip on his shoulder when he was exiled; he probably has a globe sized one now." 

"Exiled?" The Professor asked. 

"Fenrir was one of those rare creations - a god far more powerful than his parents, Loki." 

"You mean his father," Jean corrected. 

"No, his parents. See, assigning genders to most higher beings is silly. If they have a gender - which is extremely rare - they can change it at will. And Fenrir was a case of parthenogenesis." 

Oh great, another word she had to look up. From the way Scott scowled at the carpet, and shrugged helplessly when Storm gave him a quizzical look, he had no idea what it meant either. But of course Doctor Jean seemed to know what it meant. "So Fenrir is a natural clone of Loki?" 

"No. That's only true of parthenogenesis on the physical plane. Fenrir is completely different from Loki; the fact that he can change his shape to a minor degree, and is part flame, probably helped." 

"Does that mean you're not really a guy?" Rogue wondered, giving him a curious smirk. She didn't believe that - save for Logan, she'd never met a more manly type of guy than Bob. 

Bob gave her a grin and a wink. "I am, except during leap years." 

"Can we get back to topic here?" Scott asked peevishly. "So Fenrir is stronger than Loki. What can he do, and why was he exiled?" 

"Fenrir can, as I said, bilocate; psychically project different aspects of himself into a corporeal form; paralyze people with his thoughts; teleport; alter form; alter some of the energies of the earthly realm; control fire." 

"Big deal - John can control fire," Rogue muttered, trying very hard to pretend this wasn't freaking her out. Of course it was, but she wasn't about to be the first to show it. 

"Can he create it?" 

She had him there. 

"What does alter some energies of the earthly realms mean exactly?" Jean wondered. 

"Alter molecules, play with gravity - " 

"Gravity?" Storm repeated, shocked. "Are you saying he can control the basic laws of physics?" 

"Sort of, all but entropy. Didn't get his parent's abilities there. Oh, and you can't look at him, not directly." 

"Why? What would happen?" Scott asked. 

"Nothing. I just mean you can't - it's too painful for Humans to look upon him. Some demons too. That must have been what you picked up on, Rogue - Ressiks are one of the breeds that can't look at him, and have a pretty good, long sense memory." 

"Why would Fenrir want you?" Jean asked. 

Bob grimaced and leaned his right shoulder against the door jamb, once again shifting uncomfortably, like his boots hurt. But Rogue was willing to bet that wasn't it. "What you have to understand is this: Fenrir was crazy and homicidal for a long time, but because he was so powerful - and the son of Loki - his activities against lower plane beings was generally ignored. But one day he crossed the line that higher beings supposedly do not cross - he killed one of his own." 

"Loki?" Scott guessed. 

"A Higher Being," the Professor said, correcting him. Again, not a guess, although it should have been. 

Bob nodded. "One of the so called Powers That Be. And if he killed it in a grudge or a fight, it might have been forgiven, but he killed it just for the sheer hell of proving he could. That was unforgivable. So a bunch of higher beings - including a grudging Loki - got together and sealed Fenrir in a closed dimension, from where he couldn't escape without an awful lot of outside help. And since Fenrir had no friends, it was as good as sealing him in a lead casket and dropping him in the Marianas Trench." 

"But he got out," Scott needlessly pointed out. Yet he was frowning at Bob like it was his fault. 

"With some very powerful help. I couldn't think of who'd want to release him, except someone who really hated me, and had power but lacked guts." 

"Does that narrow it down at all?" Scott carped, but after Jean frowned at him, he got back on topic. "What I don't get - besides all the rest of it - is why Fenrir wants you." 

"He hates me. The feeling's mutual." 

"But why. Beside the obvious." Jean gave Scott a rather soft elbow in the shoulder for that comment. 

Bob sighed and grimaced violently, crossing his arms over his chest one more time, like he didn't know what to do with them. What was making him so nervous? 

"You were one of them," the Professor gasped, staring at Bob in awe. "You helped lock him away." 

Bob shrugged a single shoulder, and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible under the circumstances. "Someone had to do it. Frankly I thought banishment was too lenient for that psycho. I set the trap for him - he came for me. We had a minor slugfest - so to speak - before he got sucked into the dimension. I'm sure he's got a bug up his butt about that." 

"You went toe to toe with Fenrir?" Jean asked, equally horrified and impressed. 

"Oh my god," Scott exclaimed breathlessly, slumping back on the couch. "You are a god." 

Everyone but Scott - who seemed to find something fascinating on the carpet to look at - stared at Bob. Was he a god, seriously? She didn't think any of them looked like him ... and were there any Australian ones? Okay, history and mythology weren't her strong suits, but she didn't think so. And since when did any of them wear leather pants, and t - shirts with one of those sadomasochist leather face masks depicted on them? No, he couldn't be ... 

... could he? 

"No, I'm just a good Samaritan," Bob protested. "As I said, someone had to do it. And for the record, he very nearly kicked my ass. If we had been at it for a while, he very well could have killed me. Why do you think he wants a rematch?" 

"I think I've lost my religion," Scott muttered, dry washing his face. 

"But I swear he was around before you showed up," Rogue pointed out, nervously tugging at the end of her glove. Shit - if he was a god, she'd tried to hit him! Holy fuck! "If he wanted to throw down, why didn't he do it then?" 

"Because he has more in mind than simply kicking my behind, darlin'." 

The Professor folded his hands on his always supernaturally neat desk, and dared to ask: "What?" 

Bob shook his head and threw his hands up helplessly. "I have no idea, Chuck. But I think I'm gonna find out soon enough." 

Now that was a really scary thought. 

9 

    The High Priest - more commonly known as Kevin Salmon - sat in his basement apartment, wondering where the big payoff was. 

Unable to get any channels on the television, he lolled on his fold out couch, the can of beer growing warm in his hand, and asked, " So when do I get all powerful already?" 

A voice came back to him, as raspy as if it had been put through a shredder, and as quiet as if it was oozing through the wall. "I thought you wanted eternal life." 

"That too. What good is immortality if you can't have fun?" Kevin stared up at the stucco ceiling, where the triangular peaks always reminded him of vanilla frosting on a cake, although the oval water stain spreading out from the vicinity of the broken light fixture shattered that illusion. He found himself watching a small black spider spin a web in the far corner, just over his stereo, and knew that no man who had created unreality should be this fucking bored. Where was his harem, for Christ's sake?! "Nothing's happening, man. Something's supposed to happen." 

"It is happening," the semi - corporeal demon lord that called itself Sygratha hissed insistently. He was more a suggestion of a thing than an actual thing at the moment - a constant moving shadow in the corner of his eye. "The food is getting restless." 

"And the cheese is angry," he replied, laughing at his own joke. He used to be nothing more than a sporadically employed auto mechanic ( most bosses seemed to have a stick up their asses about getting to work on time ) before he discovered the book of Sygratha one day, out in the woods beside a stream - and a dead body, but that was probably coincidental. 

He never bought into all that occult shit ( and not from lack of trying - his parents were Catholic ), and while it seemed as silly as hell, one night while very drunk he decided to try and initiate contact with Sygratha. You could have knocked him over with a Nerf ball when it actually worked. 

Well, the book did give explicit, well diagramed ritual instructions ( even if some of the written instructions were in a language he'd never seen before, and no one he knew could recognize ), so none of it was difficult. The hardest thing was finding assistants ( okay, cult members ) to assist him. He'd never led a cult before, and it was a real trip - he could see getting addicted to it. 

It was a shame the members didn't realize they'd be Sygratha's first appetizers. Hell, Sygratha was only promising power and eternal life to him - was it his fault if the stupid shits thought they were getting a cut of the deal too? 

Well, okay, maybe he implied they would. But who didn't stretch the truth a little? 

"I mean the other Humans," Sygratha hissed, sounding even more testy than usual. 

"I know what you meant," he snapped, idly scratching his balls. God, he was bored. Bored and out of beer. "Can't I have a little unreality here? Can you make all the women in town hot for my bod? That's be cool." 

"Until I feed my abilities to manipulate this plane are limited." 

"So feed already." 

" I am working on it," it hissed, and for a moment sounded like his ex - girlfriend. "The dead are walking." 

At this surprising news, Kevin roused himself long enough to sit up and gaze out the small window that was ground level, basically overlooking the sidewalk outside his building. There were a couple of cars on the street, a couple people walking past on the sidewalk and the one across the street, but none of them looked like zombies. "Bullshit. I don't see no dead guys." 

"It's the dead that haunt them, the ghosts in their mind. The despair will drive them to me." 

Kevin snorted derisively and collapsed back on his lumpy couch, careful not to spill his beer."Why don't you just go eat 'em yourself?" 

"I am not yet strong enough to seek them out; I am non - corporeal." If a partially existent demon could be said to sound pissy, Sygratha did. 

Kevin sighed heavily, throwing an arm over his brow, and started to play an old game - trying to see patterns and faces in the frozen icing waves of the ceiling. 

Man, this shit should pay off soon. He'd have hated to raise some demon lord for absolutely nothing. 

**** 

    Keenan - whose full name was Keenan Hathaway - lived in what was essentially a trailer park on the outskirts of Saint Michel, where suburbanization gave way to pine forests that loggers never had any use for. This far out, there was no sun - the sky was the solid steel grey of a cement wall, looming over everything like the lid of a coffin. Logan still wondered if he could cut it if he could get right up to it. 

According to an only slightly vandalized carved wooden sign, this was the "Golden Acres Planned Community Development", a very P.C. way of saying : "Trailer park - COPS filmed on location nightly." 

Okay, that was a stereotype. But fuck if this place didn't ooze depression like a bad smell. Postage stamp yards separated single wide tin cracker boxes and larger, bread box like double wides, all ranging in states of repair, from sparkling clean to one collapsed stair away from being condemned by the province. 

"You date some classy people," Logan noted, as he drove the bike at a crawl through the narrow, potholed road that cut through the center of Golden Acres. 


	5. Part 5

Clia rested her chin on his left shoulder, and briefly dug her fists hard into his gut, as if trying to give him the Heimlich maneuver. "You realize you're insulting yourself, don't you?" 

He snorted. "I never dated ya, only slept with ya. Supposedly." 

"What the hell do you mean supposedly? You can't remember? Not even that whole bathroom thing?" 

He risked a backwards glance at her. "What? What bathroom thing?" 

"Nothing. If you can't remember, I ain't tellin' you." 

"You're making that up," he accused. But she continued to give him a haughty glare, and he got a sick feeling she was being truthful. What had they done ... no, he didn't want to know. He was drugged to the gills anyways; she probably was too. 

"There it is," she said, pointing off to the right. "Lot number seventeen, off to the right." 

It was a sad little single wide, a dried piss sort of yellow gold with brown trim, and a yard that wasn't so much a lawn as a midget mud wrestling pit. Beneath the sagging car port with peeling tar paper on its roof was a pea green Prizm that had probably seen a better half decade. 

"And you dated this mook how long after seeing where he lived?" He wondered, as he parked the bike at the end of the gravel driveway. 

"Three days." 

"Why that long?" 

"I'm not as shallow as you are," she claimed, then added, "I didn't have wheels then." 

"You do now?" 

"At the moment? No. Goddamn insurance doesn't believe the car accident wasn't my fault." 

He got off the bike after she did. "Why not?" 

" 'Cause the fucking truck was parked when it hit me." She shook her head disgustedly and led the way up the driveway, trying to take the least muddy path to the door. She didn't look back to see him staring at her. Oh, she had to be kidding - fucking Belial. 

She knocked on the flimsy, mud spattered white door before he reached the small steps that made the entirety of his front porch. "Keenan, it's me," she shouted, adopting a sweet, wheedling voice. "Can you let me in?" 

After a rather long moment, a shrill male voice shouted: "Go away! Leave me the fuck alone!" 

Clia scowled at the door. "Cocksucker," she muttered under her breath, then, adopting that sweet voice again,said: "Honey, don't be that way! I'm sorry I left last night! Let me make it up to you!" 

"Go away! I can't help you!" 

That seemed an odd response. But Logan then realized there was an odd smell too. "He's scared shitless," Logan told her. "He's just about pissin' his pants." 

She scowled at him. "How do you know?" 

"I can smell it." 

She raised her eyebrows at him, the look on her face suggesting he just told her how fun it was to eat paste. "You can smell fear? Through the door?" 

"You can't? You're a demon - I thought you all did." 

"Not through a door! Fuck, is that another one of your super powers? Super smelling?" 

He sighed, and rather than leave or nudge her into the mud pit, he punched the door lightly. There was a crack of thin wood inside, and the flimsy door seemed to shudder open, a part of a decorative wood strip that lined the jamb falling to the mustard yellow carpet. 

"And another super power is breaking and entering. Cool." She said, going inside. 

Logan wondered why he was doing this, but followed her anyways. 

The interior of the trailer seemed to be classic bachelor - second hand furniture in various states of disrepair, with unwashed clothes on the couch and floor, and a towering stack of take out pizza boxes that made the whole place smell like day old pepperoni on top of faint body odor. Clia instinctively headed back towards the bedroom, and once again he followed her lead. There really was no need; he could have just followed the fear stink. 

She tried the door knob, but the bedroom door was locked too. No real surprise. "Keenan, honey, come on, open the door. I just wanna talk." 

"Leave me alone," he shouted, a catch in his voice indicating he was crying. "I can't help you! It wasn't my fault!" Now he was outright sobbing. "I only wanted something better than this, you know? I'm sorry you got hurt, I'm sorry!" 

"Got hurt?" She replied curiously. "What are you talking about? You never hurt - " 

"Just leave me alone," he moaned piteously. "I can't bring you back." 

Clia gave him a frustrated look. "I have no fucking idea what he's talking about." 

"I'm not sure he's talking to you," he admitted, then gestured towards the door. Although she still looked confused, she stepped aside, and he gave the door a love tap just to the right of the knob. Just like the front door, there was a minor crack of wood, and the door swung open of its own accord. 

They saw a small messy bedroom - there were even more clothes on the floor here - curtains pulled against the scant daylight, the smell of unwashed clothes and semen strong enough to be nauseating. Keenan was curled up in a ball in the far corner of the room, behind an armchair with a broken back, like a frightened child trying to hide from the boogeyman. It didn't look like he was wearing clothes, but it was possible he was wearing underwear - the way his knees were pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, it was impossible to tell. Logan didn't smell blood, but he was sobbing so miserably you'd think he had been hurt. 

"Keen honey?" Clia asked solicitously. "What's wrong?" 

Only when she crouched down in front of him and touched his messy brown hair did he react. He snapped his head back so hard it hit the wall,and his brown eyes, red and swollen from tears, looked right over Clia's shoulder. "Just leave me alone. I can't help you!" 

Logan followed his gaze, but only saw an empty hallway. Clia glanced back over her shoulder and saw the same damn thing. She looked at him, and suggested, "Think he's lost his mind?" 

Logan shrugged, looking around the messy room for signs of cult activity or drug use, when he heard Clia say: "Some people can't deal with pain as well as you can." 

He looked back at her sharply. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" 

Clia, who had turned her attention back to the cowering Keenan, scowled at him. "You know - gone crazy? Muy loco? One taco short of a combo plate?" 

"Yeah, I got that bit. The other bit." 

"What other bit?" 

"She didn't say it, love. I did." A woman said, and then he finally realized it wasn't Clia's voice at all. 

Head snapping around violently, he looked at the open doorway, and saw Mariko standing there, gazing back at him impassively. 

10 

It was while Xavier was using Cerebro to locate Logan that Jean cornered him in the kitchen. 

He needed a drink, and could have zapped in a Castlemaine, but he didn't want to be a worse influence on the kids than he already was - most of them were not indestructible. So he grabbed a cherry Pepsi and told himself he's be happy with the sugar and the caffeine, both of which could stun a lemur. That was the one good thing about it. 

"Bob," Jean asked, coming into the kitchen just as he had his head buried in their industrial sized refrigerator. "Why is it imperative to bring Logan in?" 

He pulled out of the fridge with his diabetes in a can and nudged the door shut with his foot. "You don't want him here?" Bob asked, feigning naivete while he opened the can. 

She scowled at him, staying by the closed kitchen door. It was partially out of the pain she felt when she got close; it was partially because she didn't know if she dared to trust him. "Don't, Bob. As far as I'm concerned, you're another telepath, so cut the shit." 

He raised his eyebrows at her, hiding his smile behind the can. "Bein' around Logan is really rubbin' off on you, isn't it?" Her glare was extremely unkind, and her thoughts even more so. "Nah, I'm just takin' the piss. I'm glad you're finally openin' up about usin' your powers, but don't get carried away." 

"Why does he need to be here?" Jean repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. "I thought you made it abundantly clear we couldn't fight Fenrir." 

"You can't. I guess Logan never told you what went on in Sydney, huh?" 

"He said he helped you with a personal problem, but that's all he said." 

"Well, that was true. And no, I ain't elaborating. If he chose not to, I respect his call on that." 

He knew she thought he influenced his unwillingness to speak. But one of the great things about Logan was his inclination to be taciturn. "Why do you want him here if he can't help?" 

"Ah, but darlin', he can. Remember what happened on Dis when we switched bodies?" 

She frowned, brow furrowing, arms drawing tighter as if to protect herself from his influence. "He used your powers to shut the gateway. What does that have to do with anything?" 

"It taught me we're a powerful team, a lot more than the sum of our parts. He helped me shut down one god - " Okay, three, but who was counting? " - and I'm pretty sure we can work that magic again." 

He must gave said it the wrong way, because she was instantly suspicious and hostile. "You're going to  
deliberately switch bodies with him and use him to attack Fenrir?" 

"Oh, hell no. I'd never use him like that, although, knowin' him, he'd volunteer. No, I'm gonna have to come up with something more clever than that." 

"Like what?" 

He shrugged helplessly. "Hopin' to brainstorm with the big guy there. Fightin' is his forte." He couldn't help but chuckle at her incredibly hostile look, and told her, "Jean, seriously, don't try and protect Logan. If he was here, he'd be laughin' his ass off. He was looking after himself long before you people came along - he can deal, better than most of you. Believe it or not." 

"Even with you?" 

He smirked at her thoughts, not her question. "I don't push my friends." Well, not unless it helped them. "And yes, I consider him a friend." 

She leaned against the doorjamb, clearly doubtful, and then asked the question that was really bugging her: "Who are you Bob? Okay, so maybe you're not Loki, but you are somewhere in those  books, aren't you?" 

He chuckled, but it was somewhat forced. "I'm not a god." 

"Then how can you fight Fenrir?" 

"It's a demon thing." 

She scoffed, but before she could accuse him of being full of shit, her posture stiffened, and her eyes stared at nothing somewhere near the cutting board island in the center of the kitchen. Chuck was making telepathic contact with her. 

It was rude to eavesdrop, but he did anyways. *Jean, find Bob and come down here immediately* 

( Bob could hear the tension in his thought. Shit, what had Logan gotten himself in now? He hadn't hung on to that Ganesha fetish he'd given him, had he? ) 

*What's wrong?* She sent in reply. She had picked up the tension too. 

*I'll tell you when you come down* 

Something bad then. Something really bad. 

He admitted he picked that up, and offered to zap them down there, but she had no interest in that. So they took the long way - walking to the elevator and waiting for it to make its downward journey. Why was she so suspicious of his motives? Maybe because she couldn't read him, not without killing herself. And, admittedly, these niggly little facts he never bothered to mention before kept popping up, and he and Logan seemed to have some "secrets" between them they didn't bother to share ... 

... jealousy? Oh, come on! It wasn't like Logan consciously chose him over the wonder squad here - he really didn't have much of a choice. 

"I stopped the thought before its drip became insisting," he sang idly, leaning back against the lift wall. Although it had been fixed, he was pretty sure he saw a bullet hole in the far corner near the floor. "I rubbed it out and loved the spot where it went missing." 

Jean gave him an odd look, wondering why (A) he always sang, and (B) if he was making up these bizarre lines. Soul Coughing was not bizarre! Not like Mr. Bungle. 

"She's widely known the only maquereau that pays her taxes,I got to box her for the money. Said it might end reeling and stumbling ... " He left his can of pop behind, as he could get something better to drink later. 

Scott was waiting with Xavier at the end of the metal lined underground corridor ( no, you couldn't guess Magneto helped him put this together ), and Chuck looked more grim than Scott, a rarity that was always troubling. Scott, for his part, guessed it was bad news but wasn't sure how to feel about it, so he stood there stone faced, arms crossed over his chest, waiting to see where the chips fell. Out of respect for the general air of doom, Bob stopped singing. 

Bob let Jean join Scott and hung back, near the second elevator, and when Storm appeared around the second corridor junction, they were theoretically all here. "What's the problem, Chuck?" Bob asked, leaning against the wall. 

It was impossible for Chuck's lips to get any thinner; they seemed to be verging on non - existence as it was. "I couldn't find him. He's not out there." 

"Logan?" Storm said, and sounded genuinely startled. After the little escapade with Scott in Japan, Storm had figured Logan was so close to indestructible that any argument to the contrary was just semantics. Not a lot of people shrugged off shots to the face like kicks to the shin. "How is that possible?" 

"Could he be sleeping?" Jean asked, tamping down flutters of panic. 

"He doesn't sleep," Scott pointed out. It sounded catty, but Bob knew what he was getting at - sleep usually didn't involve that much screaming, not if you were doing it right. 

Xavier shook his head, glancing down at the floor in what could have been shame. "It's possible he's simply unconscious." 

"Or dead," Jean whispered, bringing a hand to her mouth. She was trying her best to conceal how upsetting that thought was to her. 

"Who in the hell could kill Logan?" Scott asked, peeved at how upset Jean was pretending she wasn't ( yes, he figured it out ). But then something occurred to him that made him feel less hostile towards Logan. "Fenrir." 

They all stared at Bob, and Bob found himself mentally reeling. Holy shit. "I'm pretty sure Logan's out of the country." 

"Does that matter to him? It? Whatever?" Scott asked. "If it knew enough about you to come after us, couldn't it have known about your connection to Logan?" 

"And taken him out of the equation," Xavier said, with a certain grim finality. It did make a certain kind of sense. 

Bob felt his stomach clench, and wondered if Fenrir was that clever. He was certainly smart enough to focus on Xavier's group, killing in an ever shrinking circle around them ... but that was shark like behavior that didn't necessarily need much forethought. Taking out Logan was just too damn smart for Fenrir, whose idea of strategy was a scorched earth policy. He shook his head, certain now that that hadn't happened. "I'd know if he were dead." 

"Fenrir couldn't interfere with that?" Scott asked. 

Oh, damn him and his contrariness! "He could if he knew about it, but I can't see him knowin' about it." 

"Why not? He's a god, isn't he?" 

"But to know that much about me, he'd have to have revealed himself to me, and he didn't risk that until he was ready." 

"Could that Organization have him?" Storm interjected. 

Bob shook his head, a little more certain about this. " I'd think they're still regrouping, especially after losing Camp Lejune and Control." 

"Control?" Jean repeated, glad to get her mind off a dying Logan for a moment. "The guy? I didn't think he was there." 

"At the base? No. But to find the info he found on me ... he had to deal with beings that don't like Humans knowin' anything about them. I'm sure they'd have killed him by now." 

"What kind of beings?" Storm asked. She had joined Jean and Scott in making a sort of human shield around Xavier. 

"Can't tell ya, can I? Not unless you want to end up like Control." Bob sighed, not wanting to admit his own disappointment.  "I assume Logan is fine, and will until we find a body." 

"Or an adamantium skeleton," Scott muttered. Jean, who was fighting back tears, gave him a look of pure murder. 

"He's just out of play for now," he continued, ignoring Scott's aside. "I'll have to go to plan B." 

"What's plan B?" Chuck asked, risking a gaze up at him. He had to squint from the pain of it. 

Bob shrugged and started walking back towards the lift, figuring it would be polite to teleport out of their presence. "I'll let you know as soon I think one up," he admitted. 

Why did things always have to be this difficult? 

*** 

She wasn't here. She simply couldn't be here. 

Logan closed his eyes, willed her away, opened them again.  Mariko was still standing in the doorway, looking at him as if she was waiting for him to say something. She wore a turquoise silk blouse with an open collar, revealing a delicate black pearl pendant around her neck; a slim black skirt that demurely fell to her knees, and sensible black flats that were still flattering to her slim, athletic legs. 

Her lovely almond shaped eyes - so brown they were black - locked onto his, delicate pale lips pulling back in a sort of uncertain grimace. "I don't know why I'm here either." 

Did psychotic breaks just happen like that? So quickly and bloodlessly you could sleep right through them? "Does that drink, "Seein' God" or whatever, have side effects?" 

"Besides a motherfucker of a hangover?" Clia replied. "Nothing. Why?" 

"No reason." 

Clia was holding Keenan's face in her hands, which was a continuing struggle, but he had his eyes screwed tightly shut and was continuing to make pathetic whimpering sounds. "Keen, it's me. What's going on? What's happened?" 

"Leave me alone," he moaned, not even opening his eyes. 

"He's seein' things," he guessed, continuing his search for an address book in Keenan's dresser drawer. All he found so far was wrinkled clothes that still needed washing, and a couple of girlie mags. There was one he'd never in his life seen before on any newsstand anywhere: it said, in big yellow, Gothic style letters "Demoness", and seemed to have a scantily clad blue woman with horns, a tail, and three breasts on the cover, sprawled languidly on a stone alter. Clia wasn't kidding - he was a demon fucker. 

"What things?" She asked peevishly. 

"Dead people," Mariko said. Logan looked back at Clia, but she hadn't heard her, confirming the delusion was his alone. He wondered who Keenan was seeing. 

With a grimace at the cliche of it all, he told Clia, "Dead people." 

She snorted humorously. "Yeah right. What dead people?" 

He looked to Mariko in the doorway, and she shrugged. "The people he sacrificed last night?" He guessed. 

"I'm sorry," Keenan moaned, and seemed to be a confirmation of what he just said. 

"How'd you know that?" Clia asked, sounding stunned. 

Logan shut the bottom drawer a little harder than he needed to. Didn't the guy ever wash his socks? "Would you believe my late wife told me?" Before she could comment on that, he moved on to a more relevant topic. "Does Keenan have a little black box? An address book? Anything? Are you sure you don't remember the names of the cult guys?" 

"No. Was that a joke? Whadda ya mean your late wife told you? Who the hell would marry you?" 

"Can I hit her?" Mariko asked. 

Even though he knew she was just a figment of his tortured imagination, he couldn't help but smile at her. "You could try." 

"Huh?" Clia replied. "Try what? Marryin' you?" Her harsh laughter followed him down the narrow hall to the messy front room. Mariko had disappeared from the doorway when he approached, and he thought, with equal pangs of relief and regret, that she had gone. But he found her perched on the edge of the camel colored couch, hands folded together and resting on her knees in what he judged to be a nervous posture. "Why the fuck would I marry you? I ain't a sadist!" 

"Why in the hell are you with her?" Mariko asked. "You could do a lot better." 

He shrugged, and went back to his search, as looking at her was painful. "I was drunk. Or drugged. One of those two." 

"I mean, even an inflatable love doll would be an improvement." 

He couldn't help it; that surprised a laugh out of him, and he looked at Mariko in amazement. She grinned back at him slyly, her eyes sparkling in a saucy sort of amusement. "Riko, how do you even know about such things?" 

"Oh, when you're the worldly sort that I am, you learn all sorts of sordid things," she replied, almost unable to keep a straight face. 

"What's so funny?" Clia shouted. 

Logan went back to searching, starting at a side table beside the abbreviated kitchenette; the phone was on it, so it was a good bet that if he had any kind of names or addresses, they'd be around here somewhere. But he felt a curious shortness of breath, a constriction in his chest that he knew Mariko alone was responsible for. He wished she wasn't here, or, if she had to be, she was here in the flesh, alive and breathing. 

"Why are you here?" He asked her, shuffling through papers. Most of it was unopened junk mail. 

She must have shrugged, because there was a long pause before she said, "I don't know." 

"Is it a spell? A gas leak? Am I still drugged?" 

"Do you stay drugged long?" 

"No." Clia was now cursing at Keenan, but he was no more lucid than he had been before. Frustrated by the lack of anything useful, he swept all of the junk mail onto the floor, almost knocking the phone off. 

The phone. 

It was an older model, probably bought used like the furniture, but the base had about a half dozen little plastic plates on it - names beside programmed speed dial buttons. Of course instead of sensible things there were guy things - no police, no fire department, but the local pizza joint, Clia, and some guy ( he assumed it was a guy ) named "Boner" ( or maybe it was a phone sex line ).  Too bad there was no nameplate reading "Cult". 

But there were a couple of guy's names - Brent and Kevin ( the sixth button read "Home", with a little cartoon smiley with x's for eyes next to it ). Could one of them be involved in the cult? 

He picked up the handset, and only then remembered none of the phones were working. 

Except he heard a dial tone. 

"What the fuck ..?" 

"Maybe being in a death cult has special privileges," Mariko said. 

Now he knew there had to be something demonic behind it: it was picking and choosing people for its largesse. 

( And victims? ) 

He completely forgot about the speed dial shit and tried to call Bob's number. When it didn't go through, he depressed the receiver and tried the mansion - if he could get through to Xavier, he could contact Bob for him. But he couldn't get through to that either. 

"Is there an outside line for a reality bubble?" He muttered in disgust, and depressed the receiver violently. The phone worked all right, but probably only inside the bubble. 

"Do you ever wonder why they seem to underestimate your intelligence?" Mariko asked. 

He looked over at her, slightly startled. "Huh? Who?" 

It was almost painful to look at her. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous but she was lovely; she had a face that was, as the saying went, easy on the eyes. Instantly endearing, with a warmth that couldn't be faked or slapped on with make up. Her long, sleek ebony hair was mostly pulled away from her face, held by a silver clip that had multicolors stones inset in an oval frame, so it resembled the eye of a peacock feather, and he wondered where all this detail was coming from. Him? His own mind? Could he remember things without being consciously aware of it, ever? 

( Was the demon targeting him? ) 

"Everyone," she said, meeting his gaze fearlessly. "Many people seem to treat you like you're an idiot, but you never have been. Maybe you slum, but you're not stupid." 

This change of topic almost threw him off his game. He shook his head, and pressed the speed dial button for the first man's name ( Brent - he'd only try "Boner" if there was no one left to try ). "I have my moments." 

"We all do. But the phone - I'm not sure I'd ever think of that." 

"Yes you would. You were smarter than me." That was out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. Was she? Well, probably, but when you got down to it, that wasn't much of a feat. 

"There you go again," she sighed, confirming she existed only in his mind. He hadn't said it aloud, had he? 

The phone on Brent's end had rung about a dozen times now, and obviously he had no answering machine. Logan let it go a few more times, then hung up. It didn't seem so smart now. 

"You were a natural bodyguard, a natural investigator," the ghost of Mariko went on. "You thought of angles that eluded most people." 

He shrugged, not knowing what to say, not sure if that was true or not. "My senses are different. It gives me a different perspective on the world." He was relatively sure that was true, and, if not, at least it sounded good. He pressed the button beside Kevin's name. 

"They'd drive me crazy," she commented, unclenching her hands and resting them on her knees. "Well, the hearing might, especially in the city, and the smells. God, I didn't know how you took the smell. I had to stop wearing perfume so you could get near me." 

"You learn to filter." He then paused and looked at her, receiver resting between his ear and shoulder. "You did?" He would swear he could recall a faint perfumey scent with her name. 

She nodded. "I would wear a single drop, usually combed into my hair or in some inexplicable place, like on my knee. That way I could still have it, and yet not make you reel back like you'd been punched. And you always knew when I was wearing it too, even just the drop." 

"Huh." He wondered if that was true. Well, god knew most women who wore heavy perfume would have done him a favor if they just hauled off and shot him instead. Would have been less painful. 

It was on the fifth ring that someone picked up Kevin's phone. 

"Yeah?" The young man replied, sounding annoyed. 

"Kevin?" Logan asked. 

There was a suspicious pause before the guy answered, "Yeah. Who's this?" 

Now here was where everything could fall apart. He was pretty sure - if his shouting was any indication - that Keenan had a slightly higher pitched voice than his, and a pretty thick Toronto accent, so he couldn't really bluff as him. But maybe, if this guy was in on the cult, he could bluff as someone else in it - a friend of a friend. "You don't know?" Logan replied, feigning aggravation ( not at all difficult ). "Look, there is some weird shit happening, and I wanna know why you didn't warn us about this." 

There was a pause, and then Kevin snorted derisively. "I did warn you - wall of unreality, remember ?" 

"I don't recall there bein' any mention of dead people followin' you around, 'cause that's what I've got happenin' now." 

"Do you talk to yourself a lot, or are you having some kind of episode?" Clia asked, joining him in the living room. Obviously she'd given up on Keenan. 

He gestured violently for her to be quiet as Kevin sighed heavily, and said, "Look - unreality. It means a lot of unreal shit can happen, all right?" 

Clia mouthed the words "Who is it?' as, behind her, Mariko - who was a good four inches shorter than her - mimed punching her in the back of the head. Logan tried to twist his smile into a grimace and looked away, as Kevin clicked his tongue impatiently on the other end of the line. "You knew what you were getting into, okay? So just deal." 

The urge to laugh gone, he looked back at Clia and shrugged, at the same time he mouthed the name "Kevin". "No, I don't think I did," Logan replied, as Clia's brows sunk downward, and she replied quietly, "Kevin?" She knew him? "I thought there was gonna be a payoff here. I ain't feelin' it." 

"How can you feel immortality?" 

Was that the "payoff" to the cult? Talk about a booby prize. "Wouldn't I feel different? And would I have these fucking dead people on my case?" 

Clia came over and gestured that she wanted to talk to him. Mariko was standing back by the couch, arms cross over her chest, a look on her face suggesting she really didn't like Clia at all. He didn't suppose he could blame her. 

"Oh, suck it up, asshole," Kevin snapped. "It'll be over soon." 

"How do you know?" 

He handed the receiver over to Clia as he heard Kevin reply, " 'Cause I'm the leader, fuckface, and you do what I say." Jackpot. Too bad all they had was the name Kevin. 

"You're the fucking leader of this thing?" Clia exclaimed in disbelief. 

He didn't need to be near the phone to hear Kevin's side of the conversation. The good part about his range of hearing. He wandered over towards Mariko, wondering why he was doing so, as Kevin said, "Cliandra? Shit - who the fuck's with you? That didn't sound like Keenan." 

"What the fuck does it matter?" She shot back. "Keenan's a gibbering wreck. Did you do this to him?" 

"What the fuck do you care? You left. Think I didn't notice?" 

"You were the dickhead in the High Priest costume? Have things gotten that bad for you?" 

"Fuck you, bitch! I own this town!" 

He found himself staring at Mariko's familiar and yet somehow new profile. She wasn't here, of course, she existed only in his mind, but he would swear he could smell her. She glanced at him with a sweet smile, and as much as it hurt him just to see her, he wished they could leave. Just go, get out of here, leave this stupid demon shit for Clia and her wacky family to handle. "We could," Mariko said. "Of course, I think we'd have to stay in town." 

"The bad part," he muttered to her, hoping Clia didn't hear. 

"Oh please," Clia snapped, paying him no attention at all. "I'm a demon, limp dick - think I'm afraid of your big bad poser? Pul - lease, Human!" 

"Think that's why she's not seeing any dead?" He wondered. " 'Cause she's a demon?" 

Mariko shrugged a single small shoulder. He suddenly knew they were creamy pale under the long sleeves of her silk shirt, and that one - the right? - had a dimple. He could imagine kissing it, and the two dimples on her back. ( Yes, she had them on her back - right beside each other, one slightly higher than the other, near the center of her spine. Why was he remembering such small and inconsequential details now? )  "Either that, or she doesn't feel guilty about anything." 

That brought him crashing back to reality. "Guilty? What - " But he couldn't even say it, because it made perfect sense. Was Mariko not the biggest failure of his failure ridden life? The one person that probably meant the most to him, and he couldn't protect her; he couldn't use his freakish abilities to save her. 

He looked down at the dirty carpet, swallowing hard, feeling rage and embarrassment make his face flush. He was such a moron sometimes, wasn't he? That's what had driven Keenan over the edge: he felt guilty about all the demons they sacrificed last night ( "I can't help you! I'm sorry!" ), and now he couldn't even think past his own shame. 

"I'll make you eat those words, demon cunt!" Kevin snapped. 

"Oh yeah?" She snarled, and then her voice became a savage, mocking purr. "A little boy like you wouldn't even know what to do with me. Sic your big bad doggies on me, castrati - I'll try and remember to be scared." 

Logan felt something like a warm breeze against his cheek, and only when it held steady did he realize it was Mariko, her hand cupped against the side of his face. "I don't want you to only associate me with pain," she said, her voice a whisper. Only then did he realize she was speaking Japanese, and he had probably been responding to her in the same language; no wonder Clia had made no comment on what he was saying - she probably didn't speak the language. 

Clia slammed the phone down violently, nearly breaking the rickety side table. "That stupid jackoff," she raged. "We should so kick his scrawny little ass!" 


	6. Part 6

"Love to," he told her, looking up. He could still feel Mariko's touch, and it was extremely distracting. "Where does he live?" 

Clia's angry expression melted into a chagrined grimace. "Well, uh, I don't really know." 

He rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. 

"Hey, look, I don't know him that well," she said defensively. "He's just Kevin the Fish Guy, some bonehead acquaintance of Keen's." 

"The Fish Guy?" 

"His last name is fish related. But I can't remember how." 

Oh, this continued to get better all the goddamn time. "Do you even know what this stupid fuck looks like?" 

"Of course I do," she replied tartly. "He's a putz with stringy brown hair and a concave chest who's still doing his damnedest to acquire a beer belly. He dresses like he's still in college - an agricultural college." 

He threw his hands up and turned away, stomping out the flimsy, broken door of Keenan's trailer. "Great. That doesn't describe every other dirtbag in this town." 

"He always has the grimiest fingernails," she added, coming out after him. Mariko hadn't followed him, but once he was outside, he saw her standing beside motorcycle. His own personal ghost. "Like he was deliberately mucking around in goop always and ever." 

He was half way down the driveway when he bothered to look back. "And that helps me how? Hate to break it to ya, hon, but a lot of guys have questionable hygiene." 

"You're pretty clean." She paused before adding, "Considering." 

He glowered at her, not sure what that was supposed to mean. But honestly, he didn't want to know, and he didn't care. "After a while, the smell of me starts drivin' me crazy. I'm a general exception." 

"Nice to know," Clia said, with an impatient sigh. She crossed her arms in a way that made her already prominent breasts stick out even more. She was doing that on purpose."So where to now, hot shot?" 

"Do you know the general area of where he lives? Trailer park? Outskirts? In the city?" 

She cocked her head to the side as she thought, and Mariko said, "Be careful with this one, Logan. She's being truthful now, but as soon as she gets a better offer she's throwing you overboard." 

He didn't say it, but he did think it: "I know." 

She was a Belial demon after all. He had been led to believe that was the nature of the beast. 

11 

    He materialized on a black sand beach, beside an ocean the color of crushed amethysts, the pale green sun high in the jade sky, shedding a curiously faint warmth. 

The air didn't smell like salt more than baking soda, but that was just a olfactory curiosity, one of many on this plane of existence. 

A whorled black and white shell scuttled away from him, up the beach, as Bob started walking towards a beach house, set on stilts near the high tide line of the shore. It was a quaint but expansive looking bungalow, its wide cedar patio facing the ocean, but there was no one out on it to greet him. 

But he knew his arrival had been instantly noted. He was, in fact, being watched closely. 

He managed to walk all the way up and around to the front door, past clinging red vines that half heartedly reached out to grab him ( and missed ) and purple flowers as big as his head, shedding a fragrance like copper and blood, only to find the door open for him. 

"Hello?" He asked, stepping inside. There was a nice, airy living room, enjoying the light seeping in through the window wall of the patio, giving the veined marble floor a curious lime green cast. The furniture was a jumbled mix of styles, but heavy on the rattan. "Cammy? Can I have a minute?" 

Suddenly there was a woman sitting at a marble table near the patio doors, knitting contentedly, and never glanced at him or missed a stitch. "I have to admit, of all the people I expected to see, you weren't on the list, Bob. You're still calling yourself Bob, aren't you?" 

"Yep. I've grown attached to its banal simplicity," he admitted, pulling out the wrought iron chair across from her and having a seat. "So how're tricks, Cam?" 

"Oh, ordinary. Which is fine by me." She pulled out a piece of red yarn - he guessed it was chenille, or something like it - and kept knitting, the needles making the faintest of clicking sounds, competing with the roar of the surf to fill the house. "But you're not here on a social call." 

"No, I'm afraid not. Fenrir's out." 

That made her glance up at him for the first time, but she never missed a stitch. "Who would be dumb enough to let him out?" 

Bob was forced to shrug. "I don't know. A shit for brains, that's for certain, but I'll deal with them in time. Right now, I gotta get Fenrir back in his cage." 

"No," she said, with the type of certainty that could give a person chills. "Once was bad enough. He needs to be destroyed." 

Bob sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. Look, I need a favor, Cam, but I bet you already guessed that." 

She looked at him appraisingly. Cammy - in this guise - appeared as a matronly Latina, maybe middle aged, with short, glossy black hair and skin the color of bronze. She could have passed as anyone's madre in Mexico City, with the slight but obvious problem that where her eyes were supposed to be were simply almond shaped holes in her face, bulging with red blood that never fell, but still seemed to swirl in its own personal Brownian motion. As always, Bob was sure the blood was not her own. "You want to call in your chip - is that how the Lessers put it?" 

"Humans. And yeah." 

She returned to her knitting, needle clicks filling up the moment. It looked like she was making someone a new coat of crimson skin. "I won't have dealings with that dimension anymore, Bob. Even if it is to stick it to Fenrir." 

"You won't have to come. I just want you to take some people under your aegis." 

She knitted thoughtfully - if that was possible - and didn't look up from her work. Bob placed his hands on the table, which was as warm as fevered flesh, and while the marble had the usual gold and black veins winding through it, it also had tiny red veins that seemed to pulse with life and light. 

"Would you like some tea?" Cammy - also known to a few select Humans as Camaxtli - asked. 

"Sure." Far be it from him to turn down her ( well, the Humans saw Cammy as a him - but, as usual, the truth was actually in between ) hospitality. 

He didn't even feel a shift in reality as a china tea cup appeared on the table in front of him, the rim gilded with the purest gold, although the pattern painted  on the side of the cup was a brightly hued grotesque of a skeletally thin Human body with a large owl head. He recognized it as Ah Puch, the Mayan god who ruled Mitnal, the lowest and most bloody awful of the nine hells. Well, as the story went; again, reality was just a bit different. There were more than nine "hells", and Ah Puch was really just a bastard, but a friend of Cammy's. Perhaps he made the cups, and put the bone back in bone china. 

"Thank you," he said, as a silver spoon materialized, allowing him to stir the steaming, reddish brown liquid. It smelled like mango, chamomile, and black currant; it was nice of her to remember to leave out the blood. 

"Why would taking Humans under my protection do you any good against Fenrir?" She finally asked, as soon as he had a sip of his tea. "Yes, Fenrir couldn't kill them, but they're still lessers, and couldn't do anything against him." 

"Ah, but these Humans are mutants, Cammy. With your power backing them up, they could be the army I need to take Fenrir down." When he set his cup back down, a gilt edged saucer appeared beneath it. It had a spider web of cracks that looked too red to be genuine. 

"Mutants? Oh, do you mean those lessers that can do those quaint little tricks?" 

"The very same." 

Her needles clicked out an almost hypnotic rhythm as she worked and considered it. He remembered the old myth about the Three Fates, and idly wondered if Cammy really was working out the skein of someone's life. Well, stranger things had happened. "So your idea is to take them under my wings, so their abilities will be of some use while you face Fenrir? Do you expect me to protect you too?" 

"Absolutely not. Give your energy to them; I'll take care of myself." 

She glanced up at him and her bronzed lips pulled back in a smile that was one or two microns away from a wolfish leer. " You wish for me to protect them to the potential detriment of yourself? Lessers will be the death of you, Bob. Should I say again?" 

"No. Humans didn't kill me the first time, and technically I didn't die, I was transmutated." 

"To our kind that is a death of sorts. And you were stuck on that plane, which is worse than death in my opinion." 

Bob shrugged. There was no arguing with her about it - he knew that from experience. "I have all my stuff there." 

She continued to smile at him, even as she looked back down at her knitting, the red chenille draped across her lap like a bloody flag. "Still insouciant too. Wasn't that what got you in trouble in the first place?" 

"Oh, probably. I never learn. Will you do it, Cammy?" After a pause, he knew she was probably weighing the odds of turning him down. So he called on the Belial strengths he did have in this flesh: the art of the sales pitch. "We both know of all the Highers you could kick Fenrir's ass without gettin' off the couch. Fuck, you don't even need to get out of bed. Compared to you he's a misbegotten peon, a boil on the bum of the Higher Realms. If he's gonna go down for the big sleep, I can't possibly do it alone, and you know it. Give me a hand here, Cam - help an old friend out. Please." 

She glanced at him with a single bloody eye, and said, "You've always been good, you know?" 

He shrugged. "It's a gift." 

"You know what I require." 

"You can have mine." 

Now she stared at him, and almost dropped a stitch. "There is no reason for that. Just give me some of the lesser's - " 

"I am more potent, yes?" He interrupted. Did she think he had amnesia? he knew what her price would be before he came here; and he also knew what he would offer her in its stead. "A little from me will go a far sight longer than a whole bunch from some Humans. I know what I'm doin' - accept it before I chicken out." 

"You don't chicken out, Bob," she said, resuming her smooth and easy clicking. " You sacrifice yourself for lessers who would kill you if they knew what you were." 

"Some of them have an idea of what I am, and they don't wanna kill me. They're not all bad,Cam." 

"Fine. Most." 

"Hey, watch it - I got family who are pretty damn Human." 

She made a noise of disgust. "Cross breeding." 

"Like you never! Come on." 

"Well at least I had the good sense to kill my mistakes." 

"Pardon me if I think that's less than charitable." 

"You always were a softie." 

"Can I count on you, Cam?" 

He let her have a moment, knitting away, as the chenille skin seemed to grow much faster than she was creating it. "If you call on me, I will help. But there's no point in risking yourself for these creatures." 

"It's my decision, Cam - humor me." 

"Don't we always?" She replied, giving him a razorblade sharp smile. 

Well actually never as much as he would have liked. But he could live with what little they gave him. 

*** 

    Maybe it was the demon thing again, or just the good instincts of a former runaway, but when Rogue went to Brendan's room, she found him packing. 

"Tell me you're just redecoratin'," she said, standing in the doorway. 

He looked up at her, surprised, but didn't stop shoving his t - shirts into his backpack. "Look, Rogue, I don't belong here. Thanks and all, but - " 

"Why, 'cause your part demon?" He'd been turning away, and that made him freeze and stiffen, kind of the way kids did when Logan shouted "Hey!". It didn't matter if he was even in the same room with them, most kids were just afraid he was talking to them. "Yeah, I know, and I don't care. Neither does the Professor - you're mutant; you're more than welcome here." 

"You know about this demon shit?" He asked angrily, turning to face her. He wasn't actually mad at her more than genuinely upset; she had felt the same way about her mutantism, once the reality of it had sunk in. 

"Hell, I've absorbed a couple." 

"So I suppose Bobby knows too?" 

"Well ... " 

His expression became suspicious. "He doesn't?" 

She grimaced, and realized there was no reply she could make that didn't sound completely chickenshit. "It's hard to know how to start that conversation." 

He snorted derisively and turned away, back to search his dresser drawers one more time. "Yeah, I bet." 

"Bren, you can't just leave. Where are you gonna go?" 

It seemed to take him a few seconds to think of an answer, and even then he refused to turn back around and face her. "I don't know, I'll think of something. Maybe wherever demons go." 

"Don't be stupid. Have you even talked to Matt about this?" 

"Hell no. What the fuck would I tell him? "Sorry, we're not the same species?" come on!" 

"So you'd just walk out without sayin' a word? If a guy dumped like that, I'd never forgive him." 

He froze again, turned around slowly like he was rotating on a metal pole jammed up his butt. "What did you say?" 

"Oh, come on, give me a break. When two young guys don't even give my tits a cursory glance, I kinda got a clue." 

"Well, technically I am bisexual," he said, somewhat defensively. "You're just not my type." 

The funny thing was, her first impulse was to say "why not", but she managed to hold it back. "He'd hate you if you just left, Bren. I know you don't want that." 

No, but ... " He seemed unable to finish the sentence. "Look, I can't stay here, all right? I'm an even more freaky piece of shit than I thought." 

"So what? This is Freak High! We're all freaks here." 

"But you're not demons, are you?" 

"No. But we're gearin' up to fight a god." 

He snorted disdainfully, shaking his head as he turned back to his backpack, laying on the bed, and zipped it closed. "Sure you are." 

There was just no getting through to him, was there? Pig headed bastard. "Look, you can't leave the mansion right now." 

"Why not? Am I grounded?" 

"There's some freako killing people that have anything to do with this place," A bit of a lie, but hell, if it kept him from leaving, why not? "We're huntin' him down, but until we get him it's probably not a good idea to leave. If he rips your guts out there'll hardly be enough of ya left to bury." 

He stared at her, and for the first time she realized how eerie his red eyes could be. "You aren't serious." 

"I am! Didn't you hear about Jean and Scott finding all those murdered people? And me last night? Come on, I ain't bullshitting you. Do you think some psycho asshole is gonna care that you're not 100% mutant? Your blood is red; that's all he cares about." 

His shoulders sagged, and his chin sank to his chest as he seemed to believe her. "What is it about mutants that makes people want to kill you?" 

She shrugged. "I don't know." Maybe he'd find some solidarity in the fact they were all being hunted like dogs. How depressing was that? She wondered if there was a more cheerful topic, and said, "Besides, you can't leave before you see Logan. If you think Matt is hot, wait." 

He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. "I heard he has weird hair." 

"Well, yeah, but as soon as you see his biceps you forget about it." 

"Really?" He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, neither of them touching, but close. "Like that big around?" 

She copied his gesture, but made it about two inches wider, taking her best guess since she'd never measured Logan's biceps. She doubted he'd stand still for it. "More like this." 

His eyes widened appreciatively. "Whoa." 

And if lust wasn't a universal constant, she didn't know what was. 

12 

    Clia's best guess was Kevin lived in the downtown area of the city, but that was about as much as she could narrow it down. And it would probably have to be good enough for now, because right now the city smelled insane. 

Of course she didn't believe him, but Logan could smell it: fear and flop sweat and despair, as thick as it was coming from Keenan, but there were dozens of people mixed up in this smell, two dozen, more. And it was made all the more eerie by the fact that the streets were totally deserted. 

It was the fear, he supposed. It looked as if windows and doors had been barricaded, and he guessed people were trying to keep their phantasms out. The problem was they were all personal demons, and, as the cliche went, wherever you went, there you were. All they had done was locked their ghosts inside with them. 

"Wow - is this what they mean by a ghost town?" Clia asked, as Logan parked his bike at the curb in front of a closed bar. Closed due to personal manifestations of guilt and regret? That would have been a hell of a sign to stick in the window. 

"If you make another pun I'm knockin' you out," he threatened half heartedly. He needed her still - she knew what Kevin looked like; he didn't. 

"You still seein' the dead wifey?" 

He wheeled on her and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. He saw the fear in her eyes before he smelled it. "Don't you dare mock her," he snarled, feeling a strange raw anger make heat flush through his skin. 

He felt the cooler touch of Mariko's hand on his, and she said, "You're letting it get to you. You're better than that, love - don't give in." 

He almost asked her letting what get to him, but he wasn't so far gone he didn't get it: the demon. He thought that whatever drove these people over the edge wouldn't get to him, but it must have been far more subtle than simply having Mariko show up. She was simply the first symptom of the disease. 

Logan took a deep breath and let Clia go, only realizing as soon as he released her that he had pulled her off her feet. She stumbled back, and glared bloody murder at him. "Fucking psycho, what the hell was that about?" She spat angrily.  
"Are you going loco like Keenan or somethin'? " She rubbed her neck and straightened out her wrinkled shirt, using indignancy to cover her fear. She probably didn't realize he was that strong, even though she had seen him break open doors with small rabbit punches. Well, they were only trailer doors, and she was the demon here; it must have been natural to assume she was the stronger one. 

"I might be," he admitted. "So don't fucking piss me off." He turned away before he could get mad at her again, and stopped dead when he almost walked into Mariko. It didn't matter that she was just a figment of his imagination - he wasn't going to walk into her or through her or whatever. 

"It's getting stronger," she said, stepping out of his path. 

It took him a moment to get it, but he did. "The demon." The sky was darker now, but he didn't think it was actually night; he no longer had any idea if it was day of not. It was just the sky had become gunmetal grey, like they had been locked inside a submarine and had nothing to do but stare at its interior hull. Some of the street lights had come on, but the light pooled beneath them like oil, and it seemed any beams that strayed out of its limited range were absorbed by the darkness. 

He missed the sky. He never thought it would ever occur to him to do so, but he did. And the ceiling replacing the firmament made his skin crawl; it was like he was trapped inside the trunk of a car ( or a tank, or small cell like the cold drawer where they stored bodies in morgues, like he was buried alive .. ). 

He was tired; his brain was starting to feel heavy behind his eyes. Was this what it was like to feel sick? He really didn't like it. 

"What demon? Where? " Clia asked, and he could tell she was keeping her distance behind him. If she ever trusted him, that was pretty much gone now. 

"I don't know. The thing causing this, it's getting stronger." 

"Well, no duh. You can't see the sky anymore. Any other brilliant observations, Captain Obvious?" 

He could feel something like a slow motion car crash occurring inside of him, his fragile patience giving way before the flood of his rage, but then the scent of Mariko was there, and he heard her in his ear saying, "No, not yet. Don't give in." 

He had thought the calm and thoughtful Mariko was a strangely helpful apparition, that the thing behind all of this had badly miscalculated, but he understood now that he was wrong: she was probably killing him quietly, subtly, deftly, a scalpel making incisions so clean they didn't even hurt. Or at least not right away. 

He felt Mariko put her arms around him and press up against him, and he wanted to scream. But his second instinct - to shove her away - would be pointless on a ghost, wouldn't it? He swallowed hard and tried to focus on the matter at hand .. which was ... uh ... "Are vampires better than Belials?" 

"What?" 

"You heard me." He closed his eyes and focused on the pulse of blood vessels in his eyelids. At least that was real. 

"Fuck no. Those half breed losers are full of shit. " 

"But I know some vamps who could probably sniff out this big bad demon, so if   
those pieces of shit can, why can't you?" He turned to face her before he opened his eyes, hoping Mariko would remain behind him. But of course she was standing behind Clia and to the left, watching them both warily. 

Clia's lips twisted in disdain, and he was sure he was in for some withering retort. But she must have changed her mind, because instead she got defensive. "Hey, do you know how many demons are in this town?" 

"Not many," he replied, before she could flesh out her lie any further. "Give me credit - I know the difference between Human smells and demon ones. Wanna try again?" 

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "She's scared," Mariko said. 

Logan knew that, so he didn't bother to respond. He thought she was his Mariko at first, but now he really didn't know. It just seemed like the psychic weight of her - 

( the guilt ) 

- was crushing him. "Look, I can't just - " Clia began, but never got a chance to finish. 

A horrific, anguished scream suddenly split the false night, making Clia jump, and Logan turned his head in the direction of the sound. It died very quickly, but he was sure he had pinpointed the location. All he needed was a sound. 

He left the bike where it was, and ran across the empty street, towards the direction of the sound. "Hey - where the fuck do you think you're going?!" Clia shouted after him, trying to hide her fear with rage. 

But Logan didn't answer, and never looked back. Right now it just felt good to run; and maybe if he ran fast enough, he could leave it all behind. 

*** 

    "It's a daily mutilation as I walk along with you," Bob sang, teleporting back into the halls of Xavier's school slash mansion. It was odd how you missed little things like oxygen and a less toxic atmosphere when you didn't have them. But the green sun had been lovely. "A daily mutilation and a bloody shade of blue - " 

He had had hardly started walking down the polished wooden halls when he realized he was in the forefront of someone's mind. Hmm. " - and I'd like to see it through. But a daily mutilation just won't do." 

It wasn't too hard to track them down, although he had to take an unplanned trip upstairs. They were in the corridor outside the main library. "And the water doesn't work and the pipes are iced," Bob sang quietly, and loved the irony. And here he thought the song was more appropriate for Logan. "What's the problem, Bobby?" He said, reverting to speaking. Well, people only sang at each other in musicals. "And should I just call you Bob Too and make it easier on both of us? I got an ex who calls me Bobby, and frankly it drives me barmy. But if it makes her happy, hey." 

The young man peeked around the corner, surprised that his quarry had found him first. His ice blue ( ha! More irony! ) eyes were wide with shock, as he was curious how much he knew about what he was thinking. "Um, no, I'm okay with Bobby," he admitted nervously. Bob had overwhelmed him with words, and he was a little scattered. He thought when he found Bob, he'd have the advantage of surprise. 

"It's okay, I didn't read that far ahead," Bob assured him. "What's on your mind?" 

He hesitated slightly, but finally decided to just spit it out, especially since he figured Bob already knew and was just humoring him. "Look, I know something's going on, probably related to that psycho who's been killing people in town, and ... if Rogue's in on this, i want to come with too." 

"You want to protect her." He couldn't help but grin - it was touching. "You know she hardly needs it." 

Now he was embarrassed. He looked down at his shoes, reddening slightly, and Bob put his arm around his shoulders and started subtly guiding him back towards the stairs. Well, there were people coming, and not everybody needed to hear this. "No, Bob, I think that's natural. Hel was worried about me and if she knew what was goin' on she'd want to come here and help, even though there's nothing she can do but get killed. You care about someone, it doesn't matter how powerful they are: you never want to see them hurt, or in danger. It's instinct." And it was the same reason he hadn't told Helga about Fenrir - he didn't want her in on this. Sorry, but she was out of this fight, even though he knew as soon as she found out about it she'd probably toss him off the balcony. He was willing to risk her wrath to keep her out of harm's way. 

"So you don't think I'm an idiot?" 

"No, not at all." He patted his shoulder in a reassuring manner, surprised at how much he resembled a great great grandson of his. Well, except that great great grandson was part Laotian, but still, save for the eyes, the resemblance was uncanny. "In fact, I'm glad you've volunteered - as it were - because I think you could help." 

Bobby glanced up at him, trying to hide his pleased smile but failing. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Go get Marie and Kitty and meet the rest of in the Professor's office in five minutes." 

He raised his eyebrows, lips twisting uncertainly. "Kitty?" 

Bob nodded. "I'll explain when you get there. Go on." 

Bobby nodded and gave him a weak smile as he went off to find the others. 

The kids were resilient and willing to accept his lead, assuming he knew more about what was going on than anyone else. And they were right, of course. But he wondered if he'd have to push some of Xavier's people to get them to accept his lead. 

Because he already knew they weren't going to like it. 

13 

    Scott guessed there was something wrong when he reached the Professor's office and found Bobby, an uncertain Kitty, and an impatient Rogue waiting along with Storm, Jean, and the Professor. And Bob, of course, standing in the corner parallel to the door, trying to keep as much distance between him and Xavier as possible. 

"What going on?" Scott asked, staring at Bob. Oddly enough, he wished Logan was here to deal with this weirdo; he seemed to run interference pretty well, and he and his so called "friend" kept things pretty much to themselves. But now that Logan was gone ( was it wrong for him to hope he was dead if he didn't have the guts to show up here? ), they got full on Bob, and how irritating was that? He thought filtered Bob was about all he could stand. 

"I got a plan to kick Fenrir's ass," Bob said, his eyes sparkling with humor. What, had he picked up his thoughts? Oh, who cared? "But it requires you playin' ball with me. Can you handle that?" 

"What kind of ball?" He wondered, and glanced nervously over at the kids, clustered in the corner opposite Bob. "Should they be here?" 

"They're in." 

"No they are not," Scott snapped, his worst fear confirmed. "They are kids, and I am not - " 

"We can take care of ourselves," Rogue interrupted irately, crossing her arms over her chest. "Ain't that why we're here? To learn to take care of ourselves?" 

"Nothing is gonna happen to them," Bob said. "I won't let it. I know it's hard for you, but you're gonna have to trust me, Scott." 

"We should hear him out, don't you think?" The Professor suggested, but they all knew it was simply a polite order. Scott sighed, feeling defeated - for the hundredth time today - and sat on the couch beside Jean, slouching forward with his elbows on his knees. Jean put her hand on his back in a gesture of comfort, but it was automatic, and he didn't know if she really meant it anymore. 

"Now, I cut a deal with a friend that's gonna help us beat Fenrir, but you're gonna have to undergo a ceremony." 

Bobby and Kitty didn't look confused, so he assumed someone ( Rogue? ) caught them up on what was going on. Poor kids. "What sort of friend? And what do you mean by ceremony?" 

"Camaxtli. She hates Fenir - who doesn't? - but doesn't want anything to do with this dimension, or internecine battles. So she's agreed to lend you her protection, so Fenrir can't kill you, but that requires a temporary bonding ceremony." 

"Camaxtli?" Jean said, struggling to pronounce it. She was braver than him - he couldn't even imagine how you spelled it. "That sounds Incan." 

"Mayan, but you were close." 

"Bonding ceremony?" Storm wondered, getting Bob back on the more important topic. 

Bob shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal, or didn't sound as sinister as hell. "Chuck was kind enough to let me start settin' stuff up in a room downstairs. I can do the ceremony - it's nothing major - and shouldn't take long. But I should warn you - to be fair - while under her protection you will bear her mark." 

"Mark?" Scott repeated dubiously. 

"Oh, like a tattoo? We get tattoos?" Rogue asked, sounding inexplicably thrilled by that idea. 

Bob grinned, but it seemed uncomfortable somehow. "Nah sweetheart, you'll still have to pay to get one of those. But it may look a bit like one while it lasts." 

"What will it look like?" Jean asked. She didn't like the sound of it either. 

"A feathered serpent with bloody eyes. Most likely it'll be on your forehead." 

"Our foreheads?" Kitty asked nervously, reaching up to touch her brow. Rogue might have belonged here; Bobby was a stretch; but Kitty certainly didn't. She was a sweet girl, and belonged as far from this madness as possible. Scott wasn't sure he'd ever been as innocent as she was. 

"Don't worry - as soon as Cammy withdraws her protection, they'll disappear." 

"What does this ceremony entail?" Storm asked. 

"Oh, just some chantin' and liturgical crap like that," Bob said dismissively. "But I'm afraid you aren't comin' with us, Ororo." 

"What? Why?" 

"Because Fenrir can control the atmosphere too, and even with Cammy's power backin' you up, it's a stalemate. You'll only be cannon fodder. I'm sorry, Storm, but you're out. Chuck, you too." 

The Professor didn't seem all that surprised. "Because telepathy is of no use against a god." 

Bob nodded. "You'll just make your own head explode. And Jean, you're on the fence. Don't use your telepathy, which you already guessed, but how much value your telekinesis is gonna be is up in the air. But we can give it a shot. And Scott, you're probably not going to be able to do much but annoy him, but I'll settle for that. Rogue - how long can you hold the powers of someone you absorbed?" 

She had to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. Half an hour maybe?" 

"You were Logan for days," Scott pointed out, reminding her of the last time she had absorbed him. 

"Yeah, but I drained him dry. If he was a normal person, I'd have killed him; I almost did anyways. And I was not Logan for days. Maybe like a day, tops." 

"At least you didn't get the facial hair," Bobby pointed out, giving her a small smile. 

She grinned back at him. "Yeah, but the claws may have been cool." 


	7. Part 7

"Okay, you're still in," Bob said, although Scott wasn't sure to whom. Rogue? "Now Kitty, I know you're nervous, but I don't expect you to fight." 

"No?" She sounded both relieved and disappointed. 

"No. You're the secret weapon, and I want to save you until the very end - I don't want him to see you coming. Can you run fast?" 

She seemed uncertain about what he was asking, nervous, but she conquered her fear. "Pretty fast, yes." 

"Good. Bobby, how fast can you create an ice sheet? And I mean one at least a foot thick, more if possible?" 

"Um, not long if I pour it on." 

"Under a minute?" 

Bobby nodded, his expression curious, but for some reason he didn't ask Bob why he wanted to know. Was Bob keeping him quiet? 

"Great, you're in." Bob then turned his electric gaze on him,and Scott felt impaled to the couch. And he had wondered why Bobby couldn't ask him a question? "But Scott, you gotta understand if we do this I'm in charge. You'll have to do what I say, and not challenge me. Can you do that?" 

Scott knew if he said no, he'd kick him off the team, and who'd keep an eye out for the kids then? But could he take orders from this deliberately obtuse, deceptive man? 

Did he have a choice? 

"Yeah," he sighed, sure he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. 

Well, so far this week at any rate. 

*** 

    Logan focused on nothing but the reality of what his senses were picking up, hoping they couldn't be completely compromised. Well, not yet anyways. 

The first thing he smelled was blood: thick and cloying, mostly Human, but some demon, drowning the stink of fear and shit in its wake. The closer he got the more it overwhelmed him, and he had to stop, not only to shake his head and take a few shallow breaths through his mouth, but also to slow himself down. There was no point in alerting the big bad to his approach - assuming it didn't know in another way. But he wasn't going to worry about it; he'd wait until he had all the facts. If he ever had any. 

As soon as he was sure he could take it, he slowly started up a narrow alley that cut through several streets, and allowed him to see about two blocks ahead. There was movement, furtive and transitory, and a flickering light like fire, but he smelled no flames. Unreality - maybe there was a fire that had no smell. It couldn't happen, so maybe here it could. Or something like that. 

As he neared, stalking in quietly, he saw the street was wet, glistening as if with rain, but it didn't smell like water. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his skin seemed to prickle, and his claws were itching to break through his skin, but he held them back, not wanting even that small noise to give him away. 

The street was a slick of blood, and in the dimness it all looked black. As did all the things on it, creeping around the sidewalks and over the wall, scrambling like lizards and slithering like snakes, accompanied by the soft noises of scales and skin scratching dry brick, and the louder wet noise of flesh being torn from bone. 

What he saw was someone's nightmare, or perhaps someone's concept of hell - oversized creatures that sprung from the morbid imagination of a feverish child: things that were half spider and half lizard; half tiger and half snake; half beetle and half wolf; half scorpion and half dragon; grown to gigantic proportions and tearing people - Humans and demons alike - apart like rag dolls. Random body parts littered the gutters - a leg here, some intestines there, a pinkish grey lump that may have been lungs - and the beasties played tug of war with a fresh body, ripping it in half and sending internal organs flying as other, smaller beasties screeched and ran in to eat the spilled bits of gore like they were treats knocked out of a pinata. 

Was there any intelligence at work? He doubted it, meaning the demon he really wanted wasn't here, but was he walking away? He doubted that too. 

It was just then that a big grotesquerie - it had the mandibles and hard carapace of a beetle, the multiple legs of a spider, but the thick, leanly muscular body of a lizard - the size of a Greyhound bus saw him, and let out a scream that was part infant, and part angry tom cat fed through a Moog synthesizer. It advanced on him, thin legs still managing to come down with the force of piledrivers, cracking the bloodied pavement beneath its feet, as its  car crusher sized mandibles clicked like metal rods being slammed together. 

"Oh, give me a break, Beetle Boy," he spat, finally popping his claws. As its slime dripping mandibles stabbed down towards him, he slashed out with his right hand and cut them off. As its antennae waggled in distress, he slashed out with his left claw, and sliced its end table sized head clean off. 

The body simply collapsed, as if all its thin legs had been kicked out from under it, and the pavement fissured even more beneath it, creating an impromptu drain for the blood to run down. Suddenly all the other beasts - as big as train cars, as semis, as tanks - saw him, and started converging, hissing and snapping and yowling and screaming and snarling; nightmare noises that were almost real but not quite. 

Logan grinned at them, baring his teeth in a predatory manner, and it was all he could do not to laugh. This was a reality he knew - things trying to kill him. But he also knew, in that reality, he always killed them first, no matter how big, ugly, and mean they were. 

He didn't wait for them to come to him. He lunged at the nearest one, claws first - it was a spider lizard kind of thing, as if a tarantula had mated with Godzilla - and sliced across its grape like cluster of eight bulging eyes in the center of its face, making it scream in a distressingly Human manner as he shredded its snapping, gaping muzzle and cut through the remains of its head. Green blood as thick as oatmeal splattered on him even as he avoided a Datsun sized scorpion claw that attempted to scissor him in half. 

"Have to do better than that," he taunted it, slashing through its claws and sharp beaked face. 

As he continued to shred everything he could reach - tentacles, claws as large as compact cars, jaws with multiple sets of teeth, eyes as large as his fist, carapaces like steel and a foot thick - he shouted, "Hey, big guy, you behind this?" He couldn't help but think this was some attempt by the big bad to instill fear and cull the Human herd. Hadn't Clia's grandmother said something about it needing to feed? Was this how it went about it? "Gonna have to do better than this. I ain't afraid of no fucking ant farm!" 

As if in answer, a tail as thick as an oil tanker slammed into his chest and sent him flying across the street, straight into a building. Impact knocked all the air from his lungs, and as he sank down to the sidewalk, bits of brick rained down on him as spots pulsed before his eyes and darkness swamped his vision. But he didn't lose consciousness; the burning pain of the torn muscles in his chest walls knitting back together kept him alert, and as his vision cleared, he could see the dark shape of the thing undulating towards him, moving like a hydra, a half dozen subway sized snakes chained together and moving in unison. Six mouths as wide as car doors opened, revealing layer upon layer of gleaming white fangs that seemed to glow in the false dark. 

In spite of tasting blood in his mouth, Logan grinned fiercely at them. "That's right, assholes, come and get me." They thought he was down for the count, waiting to be swallowed whole? Idiots. 

He licked his lips, tasting more blood from healed cuts, and he had that special clarity that rage always provided. It didn't matter that there were no street lights here, and none coming from the surrounding buildings: he could see them and all its remaining bestiary friends in sharp relief, living shadows crawling over the bodies of their own dead and sliding on the blood as they closed in slowly, wolves moving in for the kill. But Logan knew he wasn't the one looking at a death sentence here. 

As soon as the first serpentine head came within reach of the sidewalk, he stopped playing dead and lunged,  cutting off two heads with a single swipe of his claw. The remaining heads snapped and screeched at him as black blood fountained from the writhing neck stumps ( but it didn't have any smell at all - but why not? They weren't real ) and he cut off two more with a backwards slash as he dodged another flailing tentacle, and as he jumped onto its reptilian back in an effort to avoid being cornered by its buggy friends, he slashed off the last two heads. He was a goopy mess, but there was a sort of crazy exhilaration in this surely pointless nihilism; an adrenaline high that gave him a grounding in a reality that didn't exist. Or at least not for the moment. 

He found all sorts of weaknesses in these poorly imagined nightmare creatures: to escape the more snake like creatures attempting to take his legs out from beneath him, he climbed up the back of a big carapaced spider lizard, only to find it didn't have the flexibility in its scrawny neck to reach around and grab him. And when the snake things tried to crawl it after him, the lizard thing bit them in half. He was sparking a feeding frenzy among these things, and like hungry sharks they were turning on each other, killing the competition in order to have the prey all to themselves. 

He took some hurts: he got a bite or two; something with spikes on its tail ripped open the back of his shirt and most of the flesh on his spine; flailing tails and tentacles sometimes caught him short, mashing internal organs and tearing muscles; but it rarely even slowed him down. He'd had worse, and by the time the shock and pain of it had really sunk in, he was already healed. 

Logan had almost killed them all, cleaned out this nest of giant vipers, when he felt the ground shake, and saw, heading towards him down the long canyon of industrial glass and steel buildings, a big lizard that could have doubled for a construction crane, at least in size. Otherwise, it looked like a refugee from "Jurassic Park". 

But that was just the biggest of them. He could see smaller ( well, bus sized ) creatures crawling from the shadows, swarming over buildings, a sea of hard black that made it look as if the night was gaining sentience and form and were coming right for him. Knee deep in beast bodies and gore, he still had to chuckle. "At what point do you think this is gonna work?" He shouted, for the benefit of the big bad whatever the hell that had to be orchestrating this. 

Not that he cared. If he wanted to keep these things coming, he'd keep knocking them down. 

A faint but deep growl quickly became the purr of a motorcycle, and Clia, driving his bike ( hey! ) came roaring out of an alley, nearly wiping out on the headless body of a scorpion dragon before straightening out and veering towards him, nearly skidding on the blood. She idled the bike and looked around in horrified, slack jawed amazement. He got the same look when she finally spotted him, and exclaimed, "Fuck, you're still alive?!" 

He scowled at her. "Sorry to disappoint ya." 

She finally noticed the shaking of the ground, and looked over her shoulder to see Godzilla and his pals swarming this way. Her voice dropped to a horrified gasp. "Oh fuck." She revved the bike and looked at him, eyes wide and bright with fear. "Get on. Now!" 

He was going to tell her to fuck off - he could take these cockroaches - but he knew she'd leave with his bike, and he'd probably never see it again. Fuck! Reluctantly he got on the bike behind her, retracting his bloody claws. As she sped them away from the scene, leaving the rest of the horror show far behind, she snapped, "You're a fucking maniac, Logan, you know that?! You belong here!" 

He thought that was needlessly bitchy thing to say, but still it was kind of funny. 

14 

    "We have a problem." 

Kevin picked at his pizza, wondering why when you nuked an old slice, the cheese seemed to explode, oozing all over as if the microwave had turned it from a solid to a liquid. "What the hell now?" He asked, picking off olives. The liquid cheese seemed to have the tensile strength of semi set epoxy. He didn't even know why he was trying to eat - that bitch Cliandra and her friend ( whoever the hell that was - but it made sense a slut like her already had a guy in the back up slot after dumping Keenan ) ruined his appetite - but what else was there to do? It wasn't like Sy had actually done anything useful. 

He was now partially corporeal but only part in the most disturbing way possible. He was literally half a guy; the right half, to be exact. He looked just like any other guy in a strangely old dark blue three piece suit and one of those Humphrey Bogart hats ( fedora? ), but only if you looked at him from the right side. He had an arm, a leg, a blandly anonymous face with small, cruel eyes - well, singular. As soon as he turned. you could see he had only the right half of his body, and was neatly cut in half, although there was no sag in the suit, and no view of internal organs, flesh, or bone. There was just darkness, as if he was just a realistically yet ineptly drawn cartoon character. And how disturbing was it to see a man not only with half a face and half a skull, but half a hat? 

To his credit, when he moved he seemed to glide above the floor, saving him the humiliating prospect of hoping around on one foot. And, standing in front of the open door ( looking out at the empty "foyer" that doubled as the apartment's laundry room ), you could see a clear but vaguely fuzzy outline of the rest of the body - the thing that might be someday, but wasn't right now. 

"Someone just killed several emanations." 

Kevin broke off a piece of chewy crust and gnawed on it, wondering what that was supposed to mean. And why was it said so portentously? "So?" 

Sy looked at him, and glared as best he could with just the one eye. "They should not have been killed. They were creatures created by the base fears of some very dreary people. Horror movies have taught them things you seem to kill don't actually stay dead." 

Okay, what did he miss? "Huh? What the fuck are you on about?" 

Sy glowered at him, and again, that was really creepy coming from half a mouth. "Everyone has doubts, Human. Everyone fears that something is not over. This man hadn't a single doubt he had killed them, so they remained dead." 

Kevin shook his head, not getting this at all. "You're in charge of the show, right? So who cares? Make 'em come back to life and kill 'im." 

"I'm not that strong yet. The beliefs of the person color the reality." 

Kevin chewed as he thought, and figured all this metaphysical shit was beyond him. Where the fuck was all the killing? The topless slave girls? "So ... he killed them? Bring on more." 

Sy's single black eye narrowed at him, almost disappearing in his face. "You are an idiot. He thinks he can kill all of us." 

"Well, I think he can't. So there." 

Sy shook his half head and turned away, gliding back to the basement window that showed absolutely nothing illuminating. "Your doubt will kill you. He doesn't doubt that he can kill anything that moves." 

"So? A psycho. We got lots of those." 

"He's a mutant." 

"Yeah? Aren't they usually psycho?" 

"He's been touched." 

Kevin had to think about that for a moment. "Touched as in retarded or touched as in insane?" 

"Touched by a being far more powerful than me." 

"So touched as in molested?" 

"He could destroy everything." 

Kevin shrugged, and turned back to his pizza, only to find the runny cheese had re - solidified, and now the slice looked like a piece of roadkill. As soon as Sy had any powers worthy of note, he was going to make him put a decent pizza place in this town. Amongst other things. "Destroy him first." 

"What do you think I plan to do, Human?" Sy spat, with a lot more venom than was warranted. 

Kevin looked up and met his cyclops gaze, not bothering to hide his resentment. "Stop talkin' to me that way. I brought you here. You owe me." 

Sy scoffed as much as possible with half a mouth and half a throat. "You're an arrogant whelp, aren't you?" 

"I'm not gonna let you forget it. And I'm expecting to get some sort of payoff soon." 

Sy turned away, back towards the blank window. "Don't worry; you'll get it." 

He wondered which way he was supposed to take that. 

*** 

    Bob led them down the winding metal halls to a little used storage room he had turned into a makeshift, ad hoc ceremonial space. 

There was little light, save for what was provided by about a dozen beeswax candles set in irregular intervals around the square room, and a single nightlight plugged into a socket opposite the door; it was a nightlight bearing a bright green biohazard symbol. ( Okay, he brought it in from the Way Station with the rest of the stuff. Could he help it if he thought they were funny? ) 

"Why no overhead lights?" Scott asked, scowling at the room as if it offended him. 

"Atmosphere. Also, I thought it was too bright - the light really bounces off the metal, you know?" 

Jean stopped short, and said, "Are we supposed to walk on that?" 

She meant the chalk circle he had drawn in the center of the floor. Actually it was more like a wheel, with five "spokes" radiating out from a smaller center circle, reaching the edge of the large outer circle. The chalk was so white it almost glowed in the dimness. "You're supposed to stand just inside it, on one of the lines. Try not to scuff it too much." 

"I thought these were supposed to be pentagrams or something," Rogue said, skirting the edge of the circle warily. Scott gave her a disapproving frown for that. 

"No, we ain't tryin' to raise a hellgod." 

This earned him a variety of strange looks. "Could you? " Rogue asked. 

Bob shrugged. "Oh yeah, most of them buggers are just waitin' to pop out of their rabbit holes. But you can hardly blame 'em - most hell dimensions get boring after awhile. Not a lot of variety." 

Again, he got those stares. Well, it was probably a good thing they didn't know. 

"You're a very scary man," Scott said, so deadpan Bob found it hard not to laugh. But he bit the inside of his cheek until the urge passed. 

The group quietly fanned out, feeling like fools, save for Kitty, who, in her own quiet way, was surprised by everything and yet paradoxically shocked by nothing. He couldn't believe she wasn't Australian. 

They each stood at the top of a spoke, just inside the circle, and Bob walked out to the center, stepping inside the tiny inner circle that made up the hub. He slowly looked between the group, ignoring the urge to pirouette like a ballerina ( Scott could be so dour ) while he told them, "Now the ceremony's in a combination of vernacular and formal Mayan and Xyoishii, so it's probably gonna sound pretty damn silly. But do us a favor and try not to laugh, 'cause Cammy can be picky." 

"You speak Mayan?" Jean asked. 

"Xyoishii?" Scott asked. 

"A Higher Realm language. Humans don't know it. And it sounds real odd." 

"So that's all it is?" Rogue asked, sounding skeptical. "We stand in a circle, you say a few words, and we're done?" 

"I know. Bit anti - climatic, ain't it?" 

"If this ... "Cammy" is so powerful, why doesn't she take care of Fenrir?" Scott wondered, crossing his arms across his chest and assuming a mildly belligerent posture. 

Bob smiled at him. The guy was a laugh riot, and yet he never got the joke. "Again, she doesn't want to mess around with this dimension. Extending her to protection to you doesn't require her to show." 

"To us?" Rogue repeated. "What about you?" 

"Don't worry about me, darlin', I'm good." Before she could threaten to inquire further, he said, "If everyone's ready, I'm gonna go ahead and start this thing." 

There was much uncomfortable shifting, but no one was willing to say they weren't ready. Finally, Kitty piped up: "Will this hurt?" 

"No worries, sweetheart, I don't think you'll even feel it. Well, there might be a kinda orgasmic rush of power when it really kicks in, but that ain't too bad." 

"Say that again," Scott said sternly, giving him a violent frown. Oh what, can't use the word orgasmic in front of the kids? Oh good lords, they were teenagers! How repressed was this guy? 

At the same time, Bobby muttered to Rogue: "Wow, now I'm glad I volunteered." That made Rogue giggle, although she quickly pretended she hadn't, to avoid one of Scott's withering frowns. Maybe, when this was all over, he'd give Scott a push to loosen up, even if it was only for ten minutes. It would probably do his sphincter a lot of good. 

"Okay, quiet please," Bob asked, and as soon as he got it, he started the ceremony. 

Oh, how he always hated this bit. Why it always had to be so flaming complicated to make what was, in essence, a transdimensional phone call he had no idea. It was much easier to teleport. 

He started out in the Higher language, as he was supposed to, then switched over to Mayan, and went back and forth as he could feel the responding crackle of energy gathering itself inside the circle, electricity jumping between molecules like a synaptic response in the brain. The others couldn't feel it, of course, although the words he slipped in worked their magic to pacify them, make their minds blank and their responses so sluggish as to be non - existent. Even though he knew they'd never recreate it, there was a rule about letting Humans see and recall these sorts of things. And as much as he hated rules, this was for their own good. 

The flickering of the candles let him know he'd gotten to the vital part of the ceremony, where essentially the line to the other dimension had been opened; it wasn't visible, save for a few stray flickers of your energy several feet over his head, obliquely sketching the outline of a circle. 

Bob reached behind him, and pulled out the knife hidden under the waistband of his pants, covered by his shirt. Usually it was in his boot, but he couldn't risk even moving a part of himself inadvertently out of his tiny circle, not now. 

Still chanting - oh, how he hated chanting ( Why couldn't he sing it again? ) - he brought the knife to the inside of his right arm, and slit it from wrist to elbow, turning the arm down so all the blood that poured from the gash hit the floor. 

His Belial blue blood splashed to the floor inside the smaller circle and out, and as soon as it hit the chalk it seemed to glow, the circle becoming florescent. The thing with the ceremony he never mentioned was to even get Cammy's attention - in spite of all of this - you needed blood. Lots of it. Well, she was a god of fate and sometimes war, what did they expect? She liked her blood. 

But that was the bargain he made with her: instead of Human blood, she'd get his. What it would lack in quantity it made up for in quality - his blood was a lot more powerful than the blood of a dozen Humans. And, also, it was really bad form to have a Human sacrifice in someone else's basement. 

He slipped the knife back under his shirt and clenched the fist of his cut arm, making the blood pour out even more. Of course it hurt like a bitch, but oh well, no one said there wouldn't be a little pain involved. 

His blood had gone from a puddle to a pool, creeping out towards the main circle, and his heart began to flutter, as if saying "You wanna stay in this form, it needs blood, bud". "You're bein' greedy, Cammy," he warned. "I still need some, ya know." 

There was a good pause, but finally he sensed a change in the air, and his blood began to disappear as if being absorbed into the floor. "Thank you," he sighed sarcastically. grabbing his arm and muttering a little spell that closed the skin. He felt a bit light headed, but was sure he could probably get a mocha latte before all this business started in earnest. 

The air seemed to be lethally charged now, swirling around the room like a trapped bird desperately looking for a means of escape, and he said the final words of the ceremony, now somewhat enjoying the dizzy feeling. It seemed to give everything a patina of unreality that was actually enjoyable. 

( That's where Logan is. Unreality. ) 

Okay, there was an odd thought. Was that true? Was Cammy throwing him a bone? 

He'd have to ponder that later. He said the words to close the ceremony and the portal, and a shockwave seemed to be created over his head, spreading outward at bullet speed until it slammed into the rapt figures standing around the perimeter of the circle. They didn't move - it was more of a metaphysical hit than anything else, and mentally none of them were here - and the candles flickered, flames briefly being snuffed before popping back to life again. The biohazard nightlight was unchanged. 

Bob sat down on the floor, and then figured fuck it and laid down for a moment, just until his head stopped spinning. He probably didn't lose that much blood - it hadn't covered the entire floor. It was just spells of this magnitude could be pretty damn draining on their own. Draining - ha! Funny. 

As soon as the motes floating before his eyes stopped pulsing in time with his heartbeat, he made himself sit up ( then had to ride out a head rush ) and climb slowly to his feet. Oh yeah - he needed caffeine, adrenaline, sugar - anything to perk him up. "Okay, you're back, " he said, brushing chalk dust off his pants. 

They all blinked as if waking up, and exchanged dubious glances that became ones of shock as soon as they saw the bloody red marks on each other's foreheads. "It's done?" Rogue asked, reaching up to touch her brow, as if she could feel the mark gouged into her forehead. 

"It's done," he agreed. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" 

"I thought it'd be worse," Scott reluctantly admitted. "I thought maybe you were going to kill a chicken or something." 

"Ew," Rogue exclaimed. 

"Now come on, I wasn't practicing voudon." At his blank look, he referred to it by its more popular name. "Voodoo." And, seriously, like animal blood would be enough to slake Cammy's thirst. 

"You mean some people really do that?" Bobby asked. "I thought other people just made that up." 

"It all depends on what ritual you're performing and why, but I don't go for that goat slaughter shit. I figure those are dodgy demons and gods at best." He clapped is hands together, rubbed them eagerly, and said, "So, Marie, want to go do a little shoppin' with me?" 

This abrupt non - sequitur seem to confuse everyone. "Huh?" She asked. 

"Aren't we supposed to be preparing for Fenrir?" Scott interjected grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest again. Oh yeah, he really was going to have to give him a loosen up push before he became the first modern day man under forty to die of an ulcer. 

"We are. Or at least I'm gettin' Marie ready. There's a demon whose abilities would be really useful to us, and he runs a slightly illegal leather goods shop on the Upper West Side." 

"Slightly illegal?" Scott asked. 

"Well, a lot of his merchandise seems to fall off the back of trucks, if you get my meanin'. What do you think, Marie? Need a new leather jacket?" 

She smiled, eyes bright at the prospect of new clothes. "You buyin'?" 

"Absolutely." 

"All right!" 

Scott continued to give him one of his disapproving scowls, but hey, this was Bob's show to run, whether he liked it or not. And Bob knew he never would. 

15 

    Clia wanted to go back her place, but Logan told her he didn't think it was a good idea. So she decided to take them to a friend's apartment - the friend was apparently off in Paris, although she couldn't ( or wouldn't ) say why. 

Clia knew where the spare key was hidden and let them into the place, a neat, utilitarian apartment done heavily in tans and assorted neutral colors that reminded him of a C.P.A.'s waiting room, but at least it was cleaner and smelled better than Keenan's place ( and from the trace scent left behind, the friend was a demon too - didn't that put Keenan to shame? Demons were cleaner than him ). 

He didn't even know why they were here. She said she thought they needed a "game plan", but he pointed out he already had one: find the dickhead behind this, and kill them. For some reason, she thought that was inadequate somehow. 

He knew she was probably looking for something here ( a weapon? ), but she wanted to be cryptic, so okay, whatever; he'd find out either way. She also suggested he get cleaned up, and look for some less bloody clothes among "Reyes's" stuff. "His chest is way more narrow than yours, but he has a tendency to go for rough trade, so there's probably something around here that'll fit you." 

It was nice to know he was considered "rough trade". 

The blood was starting to congeal on him, and stink, so he supposed it was a good idea to wash it off before he had to take a paint scraper to his own skin, but in spite of the neat and well appointed bathroom, he discovered a small sign hanging from the shower head, that read, in blue ballpoint pen: "Sorry Rey, broke this. Will replace when you get back. Gervais." Oh great - that figured. ( How many people "borrowed" Reyes's place while he was gone? Was he aware of this? ) 

But the tub was big and clean ( this was one hygienic demon ), and if it got this green stuff off of him ( it wasn't like blood at all; it was too solid for that. What the hell was it? ) then he could live with it. 

He stripped off his clothes, only to find his shirt was partially dissolved ( he must have missed the acid spitter ... unless it was something's blood ... ), and tossed them in the corner as he listened for what Clia was up to. Right now it sounded like she was raiding his refrigerator. "Hey, if he's got beer, save me one!" He shouted. He didn't know that she would, but he could always hope. 

The water was so hot it was almost scalding, but still he barely got some of the sludge off. Shit, what were those bugs made of? Maybe he should go get a Teflon suit before he took on the rest of the big uglies. 

He ducked his head under the water for about a minute, cleaning the gunk off his face and getting some of the crushed carapace out of his hair, and when he sat back up, he heard Mariko say, "Do you ever wonder how much of your life you spend cleaning the blood off of yourself?" 

"No," he replied, wiping the water off his face, and leaning back against the end of the tub. He glanced idly past the open translucent shower curtain, decorated with brightly colored tropical fish, and saw Mariko sitting on the edge of the marble sink, legs dangling like she was perched uncomfortably on a doctor's examination table. 

"It's no way to live." 

He snorted. " My whole life is no fucking way to live, darlin'. You get used to it after a while." 

"You shouldn't have to." 

He didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. He didn't want to have to look at her, so he closed his eyes, and listened to what Clia was doing a couple of rooms away. She was now looking through something ... his closet? He was pretty sure it was the bedroom closet. What was she looking for? 

"Now that he knows what you're capable of, the next attack will be much worse," she said somberly. 

Logan simply shrugged. "He can throw all of Monster Island at me - it won't make any damn difference." 

There was a heavy thud - a solid object hitting the floor - and he heard Clia whisper a distant, muffled "Shit!" under her breath. 

"You could always go on without her," Mariko suggested. 

He smirked. Could ghosts - or more correctly, figments of his imagination - be jealous? He'd have to ask Bob ... no, scratch that. He didn't want to have to explain why he was asking. "I might have to." 


	8. Part 8

Figuring he was as clean as he was going to get, he pulled the plug and got out, grabbing a purple towel off the rack to dry himself off. It turned out to be a really soft towel, and he wondered where people bought these things. 

By the time he returned the towel and looked back, Mariko was gone, and he was glad, although he was willing to bet she'd be waiting for him out in the bedroom. 

Hot damn - he was psychic. She was now sitting on the end of the primly made bed, seemingly staring at Clia, who was sitting on the floor in front of the open closet, with an ornate bowl, an old, musty smelling book, and something that could have been pot but surely wasn't. "What the hell are you up to?" He asked. 

She glanced up at him, but then stared for a moment, as if she lost her train of thought. Was she finally starting to see things too? "What?" 

"I guess if I had a body like yours, I'd walk around naked too," she said, returning to the book. 

He scowled at the top of her head. "I thought you'd seen everything there was to see." 

"Doesn't make it any less impressive. Some clothes fell on me, and I threw them on the bed. They're too big to be Rey's, so I thought you could find something among them." 

He grunted a thanks, and wandered over to the bed, still glancing back at her. "What are you doin' ?" 

"Looking for something. You wouldn't understand." 

"Try me." He focused on the haphazard pile of clothes - wow, there was so much flannel here it looked like a lumberjack exploded - mainly so he didn't have to look at Mariko. But he could feel the weight of her presence like something bearing down on him, and he seriously wished she would just go away. But that made him feel guilty, so that just made it worse. 

"Rey collects what he calls "demon antiquities" - apparently you can find 'em by the buttload on ebay - and I thought he had some kind of demon problem solving guide. From what I understood, this bowl, when you add some of this discount spice to it along with water, makes a screening mirror - or a spying mirror, some such shit like that - that should allow us to see the bad guide. But I'm not sure how it works ... " 

"Scrying mirror?" He found a shirt that looked big enough to fit him ... but shit, did it have to be green plaid? 

"That sounds right - how the fuck did you know that?" 

He shrugged as he pulled the shirt out of the messy pile and headed back to the bathroom. He'd never get the blood stink out of his boots until he got new ones, so he might as well wear his jeans too - what was ichor among friends? "A witch used one on me a while ago." 

"A real witch? Or just a bitch witch?" 

"A real one, but she was kinda bitchy. She's gotta 'tude on her you wouldn't believe." 

He focused on getting dressed, so he didn't have to look in the mirror over the bathroom sink and catch Mariko looking at him. "Was she French?" 

"Australian." 

"Oh. Yeah, that probably explains it." He wondered what that was supposed to mean, but never had a chance to ask. But if she knew she was referring to a granddaughter ( or great - granddaughter, or whatever ) of Bob , she'd not only take it back but also kick herself. "You wouldn't know how to make this thing work, would ya?" 

"Doubt it. Why, can't you read the instruction manual?" 

"No. You wanna give it a shot?" 

He sighed and zipped up his blood spattered jeans, aware he'd probably be unable to do anything, but hell, he had to give it a shot. He returned to the bedroom shrugging his borrowed shirt on - not surprised to find Mariko had beaten him here - and went over to have a look at the musty old book. 

Even in the dimness, with the only light coming from the open door of the bathroom, he saw the dense black marks on the crumbling ivory pages, which looked like no language he had ever seen. But there was a little ink sketch at the top corner of the right hand page, showing a wide mouthed bowl and a sprinkling of dirt - no, had to be the "discount spice" Clia mentioned ( the lost Spice Girl? ) - in a little mound beside it. "So, we add water and that mothball smelling stuff, and we see what happens?" 

She stared down at the page. "Is that what it says?" 

"No, I'm just guessing. I don't read gibberish." 

She glanced up at him and sneered. "Well get my fuckin' hopes up, why don't you? I could've guessed that." 

"Then why don't we just throw all the crap together and see what happens? We got zero to lose at this point. If it don't work, we can't be more screwed than we already are." 

She nodded in agreement, and looked down at the page one more time, in case now it made sense. Of course it didn't, but it was a nice try. 

"You take the bowl. I'll get the ... uh ... secret herbs and spices." 

"Fine." He grabbed the bowl by one side and carried it back to the bathroom, to fill it up in the sink. It was a nice porcelain bowl, actually, with some sort of art deco black and white pattern painted on it, and it hardly seemed supernatural in any way. Maybe that was the point - maybe you could do this thing with any old bowl. 

"Should you be messing around with magicks?" Mariko asked, as he turned on the taps. 

He shrugged and stuck the bowl under the running water. "Should I be seein' dead people? It's all fucked up, honey." 

"Talking to your dead wife again?" Clia asked, as she joined him. 

He felt a surge of irritation, but obviously the fight had been good for him, because this time he was able to ignore it. "Yeah. But don't you dare - " 

"I won't," she said, holding up her free hand. "Don't go all Mike Tyson on me man, it's cool. No raggin' on the old lady, got it." 

"I really despise her," Mariko said. 

Logan couldn't help but laugh, and while Clia gave him an odd look, she must have thought he was laughing at what she had said. "It wasn't that funny," Clia grumbled. 

He turned off the taps as soon as the bowl in the marble sink was an inch away from full, and looked at Clia expectantly. She had the the herbal whatever cupped in the palm of one hand, and with an exaggerated look of wariness, turned it over the water. "Abra cadabra then," she said, with no enthusiasm at all. 

"Should be abra cadaver," Mariko noted. 

Logan smirked, although he felt a twinge in his gut when she said that. As far as he knew, it was the demon in her form, making fun of her. 

The granular grey green herb floated on the top of the water, only a few stray grains breaking the surface tension and sinking to the bottom. Of course nothing else happened. "Wow, just like sex with Keenan. All this waiting around for nothing," Clia sighed, wiping her hands on her pants. 

He really didn't want to know. Logan flicked the bowl with his finger, just hard enough to make it shake. "Work, goddamn it." 

That must have been the magic words. The shaking sent all  the rest of the herbal dirt to the bottom of the bowl ... and very slowly, like smoke diffusing in the summer air, a dark pattern became to form, swirling and coalescing on the surface of the water. 

"Fuck," Clia exclaimed. "How did you do that?" 

Logan was forced to shrug. "Hell if I know. Maybe you gotta hit it, like a bad radio." 

What they saw didn't make a hell of a lot of sense, though. It was the form of a man, but only half a man; looked like the right half. He was bisected neatly down the middle, as if a surgeon had separated him from his Siamese twin other half. Along with his clothes, which were no worse for wear, and made him look like a cast member of "The Maltese Falcon". The only other odd thing about him were his small, sunken eyes, which looked completely black, save for a little yellowish white at the corners. 

"What the fuck is that?" Clia asked. 

"You can't be asking me." 

"Half a man," Mariko said, even though she was standing back, by the towel rack. "Or demon that looks sort of like a man." 

"What's with that wardrobe though?" Clia wondered. "How old is that?" 

"Maybe it was in style the last time he was here," Mariko suggested. 

Logan realized she probably had something there. "Yeah, maybe he hasn't been around since ... what, the thirties? Forties?" 

Clia shrugged. "Maybe. Shoulda done his homework." 

"How? That shithead Kevin brought him up, right?" 

"True. So he was kinda fucked from the get go." 

After looking at the reflection for a few seconds more, he asked, "How does this help us? Do you know what kind of demon we're looking at?" 

"It's half a guy. I've got no fucking clue." 

He glared at her. "Then what the hell good was this? Okay, so we're after half a man, but it does us no fucking good if we don't know what he is and how we kill him." He ran a hand through his wet hair and sighed, a few drops of water dropping from his stubble into the bowl and shattering the image on the surface. "You said Rey had some sort of demon problem solving guide? Can we look this half headed fucker up?" 

She shrugged, and turned back towards the bedroom. "We could try. But even if we find him there's no guarantee we can read any of it." 

Well, that was just a risk they were going to have to take. 

*** 

    It made sense - in a sort of senseless way - that a shop calling itself "Marquis De Suede" would be owned and run by a demon. 

It was near the end of a bunch of small ( boutique ) shops that ran along the right side of the street in a low rent shopping district that liked to pretend it was classier than it actually was.  
Bob said something about "guards" and told her to go on in, and he'd be there momentarily. But when she hesitated, he told her she didn't have to, she could wait for him outside, and that just cemented her desire to go in there and face Mr. Demonhead. It was stupid, really - how was she going to be any good against Fenrir if she couldn't even go in alone to face ... whatever he was ( Bob said he was a Shunned, whatever that meant ) ? So she just sucked up her own fear and went ahead inside, as Bob took care of the "guards" ( she didn't see anyone, but hey, would she ). 

The shop was small and smelled of leather, which hung on small, closely placed racks that barely left room for aisles and the condensed check out counter. It looked to be mostly coats, pants, and skirts, but she saw some other things: a wall rack of purses, with gloves and wallets on the side; a tiny display of leather bustiers and tank tops; and even fringed, buttless chaps that just scared the hell out of her. Who would wear those and why? And ... no way, that wasn't a whip, was it? 

"Welcome to my shop," a voice said, startling her. For a moment she was sure she was alone. Her heart was still hammering when a man appeared from out of what could have been the fitting room. He was tall and thin ... and looked like a guy. And not a bad looking guy, with black hair and hazel eyes, and a good real tan - not fake bake. He was fairly well dressed too, in tailored black dress pants and a shirt so pale blue it was almost white. He gave her a smile that exposed movie star perfect teeth, and said, "Dig the tattoo. And I'm getting some power vibes off you. But you're Human, right?" 

Okay, he had some kind of super demon sense. But Bob had told her not to bother covering up Camaxtli's mark on her forehead, because he'd never recognize it. "Wrong mythology" - whatever that meant. "Um, yeah. You're demon, right?" 

His grin grew wider, which seemed impossible. "Something like that. So you're a mutant, huh? A pretty powerful one?" 

She hadn't expected that he'd know what she was, or that she'd get a third degree. Bob could have warned her. "I don't like to brag." 

That seemed to amuse him. "Oh my dear, you should. People only respect displays of power." 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

"So what can I interest you in today?" He asked smoothly, before she could ask him what his power was. 

Okay, good looking but endlessly creepy. Still, Bob would be here any second - she had to stick to the game plan. "I need a new jacket. My other one is so six months ago." 

That allowed him to slide into his sales pitch, as she pretended to look at the racks of coats, swallowing back exactly how freaked out she was being alone in a room with him. Maybe it would have been better if he had big horns or looked like a lizard on two legs - then she wouldn't expect him to be normal. 

They appeared to be the only ones here too, but considering the time of day and the neighborhood ( and the creepy owner ), she wasn't surprised. Faint pop music filtered in from overhead as she looked through the coats. Some of them were actually nice looking and fairly good quality, as much as she could tell. And the guy was sticking to her like glue. 

She took one of the coats off the rack - a sort of waist length black trench style - and took it to a mirror near the back of the store. And of course, this bastard followed her like a stray dog; she expected him to start panting at any moment. 

As she tried it on, trying not to look at his leering reflection, he said, "That style covers up too much of your fabulous figure. And black is too dowdy for you." 

"Is it?" No one had ever called her "dowdy" before - that was unsettling. 

Presumptuously he took the coat off her shoulders and returned it to the rack. "What's with the gloves, honey? Not that they aren't stylish. Does your mutation effect your hands?" 

"Yeah." He didn't need any more information. 

He came back with a red leather biker style jacket and rather than give it to her, he slipped it over her shoulders and seemed to squeeze in a little too close. "See? Doesn't that look better?" 

She tried to focus on the coat and not his leering mug. How had she ever thought he was cute?  "Yeah, it looks pretty good." And it did too; she didn't know why she didn't pick it out. 

"Red is a hot color few can pull off," he said, still holding on to her shoulders. If he knew how dangerous invading her personal space was, he'd probably have backed off. "But you're hot enough." 

Okay, this guy was just asking for a knee to the groin. But he was standing behind her, so that would be difficult to pull off. She thought about elbowing him, and remembered Logan's instructions on elbow shots: "Throat or solar plexus - soft spots that do damage but won't make you accidentally break your own arm." Apparently that was a risk with any bone on bone contact ( well, except for him of course ). Who knew? 

And how many teenage girls had to know that, exactly? Oh, come on, who was she kidding: she wasn't like other teenagers, and never would be again. 

She was wondering where Bob was when she suddenly realized what song was playing on the radio now - "You're A God". She couldn't help but smirk ( well, it was ironic if not exactly funny ), and the guy caught it and obviously thought it was for him. He pressed against her in a manner that could only be described as icky, and whispered in her ear, "You know, I know this great nightclub. You're probably too young to get in, but I know the owner, and - " 

He was interrupted by the sound of a small bell, alerting them to the door opening. Well, it was about fucking time! 

The guy made a slightly disgusted face, obviously not wanting to be interrupted in the midst of his sleazy come on, but as they heard a small metallic click ( Bob throwing one of the locks on the door ), the guy got a strange look on his face. His head turned slowly towards the direction of the front, and he finally backed away from her. "Whoa, I am getting a mondo power vibe from you, guy. Is it superhero day?" 

Bob appeared from between the racks, sauntering casually, his hands in the pockets of his leather pants. He had changed into a different pair due to chalk stains, but they looked exactly like his other ones, so she never would have known if he hadn't mentioned it. He'd also changed his disturbing t -shirt for a slightly less troubling "Farscape" t - shirt. "Not exactly, Loa." Bob then chuckled, but in a derisive way. "God, you're such a flamin' sleazebag, ain't ya?" 

The man's posture stiffened, like he'd just been electrocuted, and his eyes widened in slow horror. "How did you ... you're not a Belial, are you?" 

"Nope. And there's no chance of escape out the back - don't embarrass yourself further." 

The guy - Loa? What the hell kind of name was that? - sighed slowly, like a balloon deflating, and grumbled, "Oh, fuck me." 

"I'd rather not," Bob replied. "Believe me, this ain't personal. No, wait, I take it back. It sort of is. You're basically a douche bag, aren't you mate?" 

Rogue laughed as the guy's shoulders slumped, and he looked so pathetic she almost felt sorry for him. "You're the Drai'shajan, aren't you? Look, man,you must know my own people fucked me over - " 

"For damn good reason. The Loa are morally pretty loose, but you? Mate, you found some way to piss off the cannibals. That's immorality of a high order." 

"Cannibals?" She asked, taking two steps farther away from him. 

"Just an expression." Bob said, so casually she was pretty sure he was lying. "So how would you like to start on that long, hard road to redemption?" 

The Loa sagged against the front counter. "Like I have a choice?" 

Bob gave him a smile so false it may as well have had "Made In Taiwan" slapped on it. "Oh god no. But hear me out. You know there's been some big time shit going down, don't you?" 

Reluctantly, he shrugged a single shoulder. "I've felt a major player around. Is that who you're after?" 

"In a manner of speaking. A real nasty god. And you could help us fight him." 

The Loa scoffed. "Fuck you, man. I ain't stupid enough to go get myself killed in a godfight." 

"Oh, but you're plenty stupid," Bob said cheerfully. "And trust me, I don't want you to fight with me. But you could still help us, and maybe that'll reflect good on ya among the other Loas." 

Now he looked nervous, and swallowed hard. Bob gave her a quick, knowing glance, and she knew that was her cue. She took off one of her satin gloves and shoved it in the pocket of her new red leather jacket. "How exactly?" 

"You can let my friend here borrow your powers. And she doesn't have the restrictions the Loa slapped on you, so she can actually use them all without getting smacked down." 

Rogue slipped in behind him, but kept her distance. He was so fixed on Bob, though, he never noticed. "What's that supposed to mean? Borrowed? H - how, exactly?" 

"Rogue, you wanna show him?" 

She didn't say anything - she simply grabbed him by the back of his bare neck. 

Although it was a bitch to have his filthy thoughts flooding her mind, she had no regrets for putting a real crimp in this pervert's day. 

16 

    They heard the thudding outside sometimes, when some really big ugly went rampaging past, but none thundered down their street. At least not yet, but it always was a possibility. 

It made Clia nervous, and he didn't know why. She knew he could gut those pussies, no matter their size. "She's not sure you can," Mariko said. "She thinks you might be crazy. And not in a suddenly Keenan sort of way, but in a heretofore unnoticed sort of way." 

"I probably am," he muttered, flipping through more musty pages in yet another old book. This one was written in Latin, and had few if any pictures. 

"You're probably what?" Clia asked, skimming through her own musty tome. They broke the pile of "demon" books Rey had in an even half, so she sat on the bed with her stack, and he sat on the floor next to the bed with his pile of books. He could have sat on the bed, but Mariko was now seated in an armchair in the far corner, and if he sat in this exact spot, he couldn't see her at all, not even out of the corner of his eye. 

"Fed up with this shit," he said, slamming the book shut and tossing it aside. "I should be out there doin' something, not sitting on my ass getting dust up my nose." 

"How is that gonna help us find the half head? I mean, it hasn't worked yet, has it?" 

"Maybe I didn't kill enough of those things." 

"Now she knows you're crazy," Mariko remarked. 

Logan picked up the next book and started flipping through it, being quietly consumed by frustrated rage. It felt good to get lost in a fight; he didn't think about ( Mariko ) anything, and that was a kind of catharsis money couldn't buy. 

After a moment, he heard the bedsprings shift, and Clia said, "Holy crap - I've found our guy." 

Logan abandoned his yellowing tome and got up. "What's it say?" 

"I got no fucking clue. I can't read Portuguese." 

He sat on the opposite end of the bed, and took the book from her as soon as she held it out. He had to turn it around to see it right side up, but he saw the little black and white illustration of half a man from the waist up, with the vaguest outline suggesting he might have an invisible second half. "It's not Portuguese; it's Spanish," he told her, recognize the difference. ( How? ) 

"So? I still can't read anything beyond "no fumar" and "no molesto". Can you read it?" 

His first impulse was to answer no, but that was a lie. To his surprise, he could read it. 

"Why are you surprised?" Mariko asked. "You speak the language. Doesn't it follow you could read it too?" 

When she put it that way it did sort of seem obvious. Was there a language he didn't speak, besides Aramaic, Latin, and whatever demon dialect those books were in? Could his new found flair for language be a secondary mutation? 

"It could be a mutation, but it's hardly new," Mariko said. 

He almost looked at her, but managed to restrain the urge. What did that mean? Well, fuck, he knew what he meant - he must have spoke a number of languages back then. 

Back then. It was weird how 1981 - a year he couldn't even remember - could seem like an unfathomably distant time ago. He made himself focus on the page and not on his thoughts. "Says here he's a ... huh." 

"What?" Clia asked 

"That ain't no Spanish word. It looks like "imagoralia"." 

"Sounds like a Third World country. Or a disco." 

He shrugged. "Says it's a demon of the "in - between ", whatever the fuck that is. Do you know?" 

"No." 

"Figured. It says it's bound to the person who raised it until it can achieve full ... reality? ... in this dimension. And then it's pretty hard to kill, as it can influence reality over a large scale." Like Bob, he thought, but no - Bob affected a person's reality, not an entire city. At least, not that he knew of: maybe Bob was saving it. Still, he couldn't imagine Bob having much trouble pimp smacking around a literally half assed demon. 

"So we have to get it before it comes completely into phase?" 

"That's what it says, more or less." 

"So how do we get him?" 

"You mean kill him?" Logan skimmed ahead, found nothing, and went back a couple of paragraphs. "As long as he's still half assed, all we have to do is kill the person he's bound to." 

"Kevin? Dibs." 

"But when he's fully, er, realized, you need some kinda heavy firepower to take him down. He needs to be discorporated completely." 

"Dismembered?" 

Logan studied the paragraphs a few more moments, and said, "I took it as blown to constituent atoms, since he can obviously survive with a few missing limbs. But, we - " 

And it was at that precise second that the power went out, and the lights died. 

"Holy fuck," Clia gasped, and Logan could smell her fear. 

"He ain't here," he told her, as he got off the bed and crossed the room to confirm it. He parted the bedroom curtains and glanced out the window at the city. 

Black as pitch ... well, theoretically. Not even the street lights were working - all he could see were the shapes of buildings in the gloom. "He cut all the power everywhere." 

"Why?" Clia wondered. 

"Ain't you more scared now because of it?" 

She made a noise of grudging agreement, although she quickly said, "Just for a second. Can you see in the dark?" 

"Not really, but I can see well enough." Somehow this seemed like a tactical error on the bad guy's part ... but how exactly? 

"So what do we do now? Back to square one?" 

"There was a square one?" Why was this an edge for them? 

"Keenan's place," Mariko said. He could just make her out in the darkness. 

That was it. "Ah hell," he gasped. "Now we can find this fucker." 

"How?" 

"Keenan had a dial tone," he told her, crossing the room and grabbing his jacket off the floor. He could trace it by the blood smell alone. 

"And Leon's getting larger," Clia snapped impatiently. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" 

He shrugged his coat on, and reminded her, "No one else had a dial tone, but he did. Wanna bet Kevin's the only one who still has power?" 

She was quiet for a moment ( a small miracle ), and then he heard the springs shift as she got up. "Holy shit Batman, you may have somethin' there." 

Why did he bother to frown at her when she couldn't even see him? If Belials were genuinely this irritating, why did Bob pretend to be one? Sure, he was irritating, but in a different way than this. "I'm goin'. You comin' with me, or are you stayin' here?" 

He hoped she'd choose staying behind, but of course not. "I'm coming, Mr. Impatient. Keep your pants on." 

"I thought you preferred me with my pants off." 

She scoffed as he heard the soft noises of her putting her own jacket on. She was reduced to movement in the dark. "So you do remember something, hey Romeo?" 

"It's not too late to just leave her here," Mariko said. 

Logan sighed and left without her, leaving the front door open so she could find it. The night - if it was really night; hard to say with a ceiling for a sky - was eerily quiet, save for the heavy, distant thuds of monster footsteps and the mechanical wail of car alarms. Mariko was waiting by his bike, of course - traveling must have been a breeze when you were a ghost, or the figment of someone's imagination. "What do you want from me?" He asked, straddling the bike. 

"I think I should be the one asking that, don't you?" She replied casually. 

He stared at her in surprise, swallowing hard. Was he tormenting himself? Oh, come on, would it be the first time? "Did I ever get over you?" He wondered. It was mostly rhetorical - he doubted she could tell him. 

"Do you get over things like this?" She replied, trying her own rhetorical thing. 

"Since I can't remember shit, I ain't the one to ask." He did wonder what "things" she was referring to - betrayal? His incompetence? Murder? Widowhood? Losing his fucking mind afterward and killing a chunk of the Japanese underworld? Maybe a bit of all the above. 

Her heard Clia's footsteps ringing on the metal outer stairs as she came down to join him. "Thanks for waiting, dickhead," she said bitterly, still pulling on her jacket. 

He revved the bike, and considered just driving off before she got too close. That was absolutely it; no more sleeping with demons. Never again. 

People alone were bad enough. 

*** 

    Bob called them and told them to meet him at the end of Market Street, but he hung up before he could say why. He simply said it was urgent. 

Market Street lived up to its name - a dead end that contained what looked like an outdoor flea market, there were people all over the place. Scott didn't take that as a good sign. 

It got worse when Bob showed up with Marie ( who had brown eyes all of a sudden, but otherwise seemed normal ), and told them the showdown with Fenrir was going to be happening here. 

"With all these people around?" He asked incredulously. 

"They could see something they shouldn't," Marie interjected. 

"The hell with that," Scott snapped. "They could get killed!" 

"Yes, I know. That's why Fenrir would want to meet me here," Bob said, as if he was an idiot not to realize it. "He knows I wouldn't want to put people in jeopardy, so he'll put as many in jeopardy as possible." 

"And you're going along with this?" Scott wondered if his new Camaxtli backed powers would work on Bob. 

Bob frowned at him, as if he knew what he was thinking. Well, he probably did. "I want him to think I am." 

"I don't understand," Jean admitted. 

"To really get Fenrir's attention, I'm gonna have to start throwing some power around. I intend to. Trust me - no innocents are gonna get hurt." 

Trust me? Oh, that was rich coming from him. 

But Bob turned his attention to Kitty, and clasped her by the shoulders, attempting to be reassuring. "It's gonna be okay - there's no reason to be scared. You know the plan. Just stick to it, and we'll be right as rain. Okay?" 

Kitty nodded, still clearly anxious. "Okay." 

"You know your places. Get to 'em," Bob said to all of them, and then, just to be irritating, seemed to wink out of existence. 

"What happened, Rogue?" He asked, as their little group split up. 

She shrugged, apparently not bothered too much by any of this. "Nothin' much. Just absorbed this guy that Bob said was a Loa, some kind of "Earth spirit"." 

"How is that different from a demon?" 

"He said it's a being tied into the power of the Earth ... whatever that means. This guy was cut off from some of his powers 'cause he pissed off his people, but he can do a lot of wild things, and he can't die or be rendered powerless, 'cause he draws his power from the ley lines. Whatever those are." 

It did sound like a lot of Bob gibberish. He'd mentioned ley lines back with that stuff that happened on Dis, but an internet search proved ley lines were a myth. Then again, wasn't all of this mythological? One day it would be nice to go back to their semi - normal lives, and never have to wonder if gorgons and yetis actually existed too. "What kind of things?" 

They were spreading out in a pattern girding the perimeter of the street. Jean was going high - on top of a building that looked to be home to a low budget ad agency - while he, Rogue, and Bobby were staying low, spread out among alleys between some of the other low rent shops that made up this tiny and otherwise unremarkable street. Kitty went to hide inside a second hand clothing shop near the end of the street, and Scott was relatively sure he caught Bob's oddly highlighted hair somewhere in the bustling crowd of flea market shoppers. 

What the hell was he up to? And why did he always conveniently leave things out? 

Trust him? What a joke. When the hell did he earn it? 

"I'm still figuring it out," Rogue replied cryptically, as she walked down the street to take her position. Obviously she'd been around Bob too long. 

He found a relatively clean alley ( why the hell was it always alleys? ) and ducked inside, waiting for whatever was going to happen. The sky had been clear earlier, but now it was a uniform grey, like it was going to start pouring any second. He wondered if that was just coincidence, or if Storm was trying to throw a little cover their way anyways, whether she could participate or not. 

He peeked around the corner, and found it difficult to pick Bob out from the crowd, in spite of his height and his hair. How many people were here? He guessed around seventy, milling about a loose assemblage of racks of clothing and tables with all sorts of assorted crap, much of it stuff that people sometimes sold on blankets on the street at Saint Mark's Place: knock off watches; bootleg tapes, videos, and dvds; assorted electronics and car stereos and other items that could be easily stolen from other people. And probably had been. 

Scott wasn't perfectly sure what was happening, but he was relatively certain he caught a neon blue glow somewhere in the crowd. Someone hawking a neon sign, or maybe a shipment of lava lamps ... or so he thought initially. But the light seemed to be moving, disappearing behind racks of Hilfiger and FUBU knockoffs, reappearing near the table full of tapes of just released movies. What the hell was that? 


	9. Part 9

Someone was playing a boom box, possibly to prove it could be turned up to ear shattering volumes, and it wasn't too long before he caught Bob singing along with it. "Wake up, can you hear me? You're so clever, did you find me?" 

Scott realized the glow was Bob. His eyes were completely blue - no white, no pupils or irises - full of energy that seemed to be bleeding out impercetibly beyond his eyelashes. Blue energy also seemed to outline him, like he was a walking Kierlian photograph. How much energy was he shedding? And why? 

Glowing like a neon lamp, singing loudly, it made no difference - no one in the crowd seemed to notice. "In the back room, in your closet, in your suitcase," Bob continued to sing. Scott noticed the people he passed seemed to freeze in place, as if time had ceased in his wake. What the fuck was Bob doing? "There's no running, I will find you, like a glacier cuts the seabed,leaving canyons." 

Rogue made a noise of pain, and Scott looked down towards her - she was in an alley just down from him.She was leaning against the wall by the mouth, a heel of her hand pressed to her forehead just between her eyes. "Are you okay?" He asked. 

"Yeah, he's just lightin' it up," she replied, her eyes still closed against the pain in her head."Every god in the universe probably knows he's here." 

That must have been a power she gained from the Loa. But what exactly did she mean by every god in the universe? Precisely how many were there, and where did they fall in the Bob/Fenrir spectrum? 

"As it falls apart, anything, anything, how can can you sleep at night?" Bob made a dismissive gesture with his hand, and roughly half the people behind him just disappeared. It was bizarre, because there was no flash of light, nothing that indicated about twenty people had just ceased to exist. He had just teleported them somewhere else. Right? And again no one else noticed; he must have had the whole crowd enraptured somehow. 

"Can you escape these motives?" More people around Bob froze, but they didn't disappear. They were like a bizarre still life, a work of performance art at the end of Market Street. And Bob was the strangest bit of the piece:as bright as an alien sun, he no longer seemed Human - not in the least. 

He came to a stop at the head of the market, the tableau of motionless people behind him, and now tendrils of energy seemed to be visibly leaking from his eyes, diffusing into the atmosphere around him. Bob then glanced up at the grey sky, but Scott couldn't see what he was looking at ( if anything ). 

"Oh shit," Rogue exclaimed, bringing her hand away from her face and looking around. She didn't seem to know what she was looking for, or where to look for it. "Here he comes." 

Scott wanted to ask where he was coming in,but it was obvious she didn't know.So he simply tensed,hands clenched into fists at his side, and muttered, "Come on, Bob. You know he's coming.Transport them out of here." Seconds ticked passed, and nothing happened. "Bob, come on." 

He began to realize, with a sickening twist in his gut, that Bob was keeping those people here. Why? Did he cull the herd, removing the worthy people and keeping those he deemed unworthy around? The fucking bastard! 

"Get those people out of here!" He shouted, too angry to care if he was deviating from the plan. 

"Scott," Rogue hissed disapprovingly,giving him an evil look with her new brown eyes. 

But Bob didn't seem to hear, or if he did, he didn't care. It was then Scott knew that he was keeping those people here as a lure to Fenrir - did he ever intend to move them? 

The fucking asshole! He was going to pay for this, even if it was the last thing he ever did. 

17 

    Clia smacked him on the back of the shoulder. "Would you turn on the headlight, damn it?!" 

Logan winced from her shouting in his ear, but he didn't slow the bike, even as it roared around the corner at a speed that would generally be considered unsafe under the best of circumstances. "I don't need it," he shouted back. "I can see where I'm goin'!" Although really all he could see was the shapes of buildings, parked cars, and various alleys and side streets, shadows of varying shades and depths, but there was more then sight telling him where he was. Scent was pretty helpful, as every block had its own dominant smell, and he knew he wasn't going in pointless circles, but he wasn't going to explain that to her. He was tired of explaining things to her. 

"I do! I can't see a fucking thing!" 

They not only had the road to themselves, but the sidewalks as well. The big bugs were effectively keeping people inside, although they hadn't encountered any yet. He could hear them - and smell them - but they always seemed to be elsewhere.He wondered if they knew his scent now, or if half ass thought it was pointless.Of course it was, but the big bads were rarely that smart. Obviously he had something else in mind. 

He somehow smelled the cordite before he heard the big boom of a shotgun blast, Dopplered but growing louder as they approached,and he realized there must have been more shooting earlier, but somehow they missed it. 

"Why are you slowing down?" She protested, her grip around his waist growing tighter. 

"'Cause." He was curious to see who was fighting back; so far, he'd been it. Of course he might be sorry, but he could deal with it. It wouldn't be the first stupid thing he'd done tonight. 

A big scorpion snake was staggering in the center of the street, black blood squirting from the giant hole where the left side of its head used to be. It was still alive though, partial head seemingly writhing as it backed up and retreated into an alley across the way, its tail scraping bricks from the walls. 

The person on the sidewalk holding the double barreled shotgun was a woman with spiky blonde hair with pink highlights, face marked with livid bruises, reeking of fear and sweat. Her smell was familiar, though. As he idled the bike, they stared at each other, and finally she said, "You." 

"We know each other?" He was sure they did, but he wasn't sure how at the moment. 

She lowered the shotgun as her eyes remained wide with surprise and lingering fear."You saved me outside the bar, before everything went ... surreal." 

He cocked his head, sure it was some kind of joke. "No, that was a guy." 

"Yeah." She glanced sheepishly down at the sidewalk, coloring slightly, embarrassed. "That's my mutation." 

For a second he wasn't sure he heard her right. "You're mutation is you can turn into a man?" 

She nodded. "I can morph genders, yeah." 

"Didn't I see an "X Files" like that?" Clia wondered. 

Logan shrugged. It did sound like something they'd do. "You okay?" 

The gender bender nodded. "I had a concussion and stuff, but nothing was broken." 

Logan nodded. "Great." He never knew what to say in situations like this. 

"Thanks," the occasional female added.That just made him feel that much more uncomfortable.Maybe she ( ? Did he really know what gender was his/her first one? ) knew that, because she went on. "D'ya know what's up?" 

"Got an idea, yeah. Gonna try and fix it." 

"Oh. Kind of a troubleshooter, huh? Is this mutant related?" 

He didn't know if he liked being called a troubleshooter, but how could that be offensive. "No, I just wanna get the fuck out of this town." 

She snorted a mild laugh. "I hear that." 

"Look, kid - " 

"My name is Sun," she interrupted. "And I'm not a kid. I'm nineteen." 

He stared at her as Clia scoffed. "Sure you are honey," the Belial said sarcastically. "Me too. I've been nineteen for almost ten years now." 

Sun looked up and frowned at Clia, eyes flashing like light off steel, and then glanced back at the sidewalk, as if trying to read the future in bug guts. "Well, seventeen." 

"Is Sun a nickname?" He wondered. Nothing about her looked Asian, although, with mutants, race became a moot point. 

"Yeah. The name's Sunshine." 

Clia hooted derisively, but Logan just grimaced in sympathy. "Parents hippies?" He guessed. 

Sun winced in psychic pain. "I spent the first eight years of my life in a yurt." 

Oh ouch.As if being a gender switching mutant in a redneck town overrun with giant bugs wasn't bad enough. "Look, Sun, good job with the rifle, but I suggest you get inside, somewhere safe. Okay?" 

"Well, that was the plan. I just took the gun for protection on the way back, ya know?" 

"Took the gun?" He repeated. A guilty look flashed over her face, and he knew then she had stolen it. He guessed she was a runaway, or some kind of street kid - she was way too resourceful, in spite of getting caught by those redneck thugs, to be just a random kid with an unfortunate name. "Sun, where'd you get it?" 

"From this guy I know -" 

"I don't care that you stole it," he interrupted curtly. "I just need to know, kiddo. We may need the firepower." 

"We what?" Clia asked, sounding not at all happy about that. 

But Sun gazed him curiously, and he knew she was going to tell her "hero" whatever he wanted to know. 

*** 

    Kevin trudged up the stairs after Sy, who was gliding away so fast he couldn't quite keep up with him. "What the fuck are we doin' again?" He asked, pulling on his jacket. 

"Setting a trap. You do know what one is, don't you?" Sy sneered. His left side was slowly starting to fill itself in - there was a shoulder now, although the arm still hadn't formed, nor had anything else from the waist down. He was still mostly a right side alone, and it hadn't gotten any less creepy. 

"Why? Just for this fuckin' mutie?" He still didn't see why, if Sy could cast them all into unreality, couldn't he handle a single psycho mutant? 

Sy stopped at the front door just as Kevin climbed onto the final riser, and his black eye narrowed to a slit as he regarded him with something that might have been contempt if he could form a full expression. "He's not alone. I don't know if his companion is mutant or not. You stay here and take care of her." 

"What?" This was the first he'd heard of that. "W - what if the stupid bitch shoots death rays out her fingers or somethin'?" 

"We don't know she is a mutant, and considering the population density of the town, I deem it unlikely. Besides, don't let her see you, and use that. You can use that, can't you?" 

Kevin followed his eyes to the side table, where the apartment's communal telephone ( like anyone living in this shithole could afford their own phone ) sat, and beside it, resting on the tattered Ontario phone book, was a fully automatic black Glock, looking as sleek and deadly as a shark. "Whoa," he gasped, moving to pick it up. "Where did that come from?" 

"Consider it a present. You do know how to shoot it with unerring accuracy." 

"No I don't. I've never -" 

"Yes, you do," he insisted, giving him a hard glare. 

Oh right - belief colors reality."Yes, I do," he agreed, and tried to believe it. 

He picked it up, surprised by the weight of it in his hand. It seemed too compact to be this heavy. He tried to mentally convince himself he was a perfect marksman - James Bond had nothing on him. He wondered if imaging Ursula Andress in a white bikini standing beside him would work. 

"Stay inside. The bitch'll probably come in after us; getting the drop on her should be no problem, no matter her power." 

"Where the hell are you goin'?" He wondered. Was the bastard, now that he was partially formed, thinking he could skip out on him? 

He made a noise that could have been a sigh under other circumstances. "To take care of the other mutant. If a fight isn't immediately wise, then I intend to soften him up. That way, when I can kill him, he'll be ripe for it." 

"How do you plan to do that?" Sy had made it sound like the mutie was indestructible or something. 

"We all want something, Kevin. We all have weaknesses that will cut us off at the knees and undermine everything we believe in." 

"We do?" He knew he didn't, but it was clear Sy loved the sound of his own ghostly voice. 

"Yes.If I can't make him scared, I will make him hurt. Ultimately it's the same  thing." And with that, Sy went outside, gliding into the deep, artificial dark. 

But if the guy was indestructible, how was he gonna make him hurt? And what the hell did that have to do with whatever the fuck he was talking about before? 

Kevin was a bit disappointed. He had thought some kind of demon lord would be pretty smart. But apparently they could be just as dumb as anything else. 

18 

    Fenrir showed up just like that, with no other warning at all, and at the moment of his arrival several things happened at once. 

Bob pivoted fast on his heels just as Fenrir - and his animal pals - seemed to materialize out of thin air, and just like that, Bob went flying. It was like he'd been hit by an invisible wrecking ball; he just went instantly airborne, thrown out and away from Fenrir, and he landed with a tremendous thud on a Mazda parked in front of the used book exchange, crumpling its roof like tin foil and blowing out its windows before he fell off it to the sidewalk. 

The car had been mashed as if hit with a semi going sixty. Scott couldn't believe it. What, did Fenrir send Bob flying at Mach speed? He must have for impact to do that much damage.But of course that would mean if Bob had internal organs, they'd be crushed to a fine pulp, and he'd be the equivalent of a boneless humanoid, as his entire skeleton would be shattered. 

Scott tried to look at Fenrir's face, but Bob hadn't been lying - it was impossible. He was able to bring his eyes up to chest height, where his broad shoulders met his thick neck, but then the pain in the back of his eyes became unbearable, as if someone was jamming hot needles into his optic nerves. His body wouldn't let him look any further, although he did get an impression of blazing yellow eyes, like miniature suns crammed in his eye sockets. 

But what he could see was bad enough. He looked like a thick ( as in muscular ) bodied man whose clothes were so black and sleek they looked like oil, with a long coat that flapped behind him like restless wings. At his heels were two huge black wolves - hellhounds? - and for some inexplicable reason he had a huge raven, as big as an eagle, perched on his shoulder. Okay, so Bob said they weren't real animals but extensions of Fenrir ... how again? 

It looked like Fenrir turned back ... and then Scott remembered the people that Bob had left behind. Oh shit. 

But before he could lunge from his hiding place and fire, Fenrir's dogs made a strange noise - a half growl, half whimper that someone had thrown a lot of reverb on - and Scott saw beyond the painfully black figure that there was nothing but tables and racks."Simulacrums!" Fenrir roared, and suddenly all of it - the tables, the racks of clothes, the displays of bootleg tapes - all erupted into instantaneous pyres of flame, so intensely hot Scott could feel it from here.Everything flammable seemed to vaporize in a heartbeat, but even without material to feed them, the fires were still burning. 

Fenris turned back towards Bob, still laying on broken glass beside the junked car, and simply held out a hand, making a slow fist. Scott didn't think anything was happening until what was left of the car seemed to crumple inward, as if being crushed by an invisible weight. 

"No," he heard Rogue say, and although she remained mostly inside her alley,she held out a gloved hand in Bob's direction. Again, it looked like nothing was happening, but the car seemed to stop flattening out, and yellow veins were starting to stand out on his massive fist like cables. 

Fenrir let his hand fall to his side, and growled, "You picked the wrong side, Loa. You know what I can do to you." He had the strangest voice: it was like a burning building inexplicably given speech. 

Only in retrospect did he get an idea of what had just happened.Fenrir could use gravity, but obviously so could Loas ( an Earth spirit, right? Did that matter ? ) so it was a stalemate. A good thing when it came to a gravity fight, he supposed. 

"Oh, shove it up your ass, Fen," Bob snapped. Scott heard the glass and metal falling off of him as he stood, and his eyes remained a full, glowing blue. He didn't look too worse for wear, save for runnels of cobalt blood dripping down one cheek. "Your stupid ass revenge trip is with me." 

Bob hadn't done anything, and yet Fenrir seemed to stagger back, grabbing for his head, as the raven screeched nosily and the wolves backed up with their master, growling."Who brought you out?" Bob asked, advancing a step for every one Fenrir and his demented crew took backwards. 

Fenrir made a snarling noise, and suddenly every single pane of glass on the entire block shattered,blowing outward at startling force, sending shards raining down on the street like frozen rain. There was so much power being thrown around Scott could only imagine this was what it was like to be caught in an electrical storm intense enough to blow the planet up - one roughly the size of Jupiter. Bob had never given any indication he was half this powerful, and Scott wondered why. Was he hiding for some reason? 

"I know you're not alone," Fenrir snarled, attempting to hold his ground. "But without the rest of the Aurelia you're screwed." 

Aurelia? Lovely, more names that could refer to anything, names that Bob had conveniently never mentioned. 

Fenrir's wolves broke off from their master,and with their heads held low, lips pulled back from dripping ivory fangs, and Scott knew one was coming for him, and the other for Rogue. The raven took off from Fenrir's shoulder, and he bet it was heading up towards Jean. 

"I only need Camaxtli," Bob replied coolly, as the street started to rumble, and cracks began to spiderweb throughout the macadam. Scott wasn't sure which of them was doing it, especially since neither seemed bothered by it. 

"Camaxtli?" It was hard to say, but he almost sounded nervous. 

Scott wondered if he should shoot the wolf coming towards Rogue first, and just take care of the one after him second - assuming there was enough time. He just didn't know what other powers a Loa had, and if it would do her any good. 

It wasn't a decision he had to make. From across the street, what looked like a beam of solid, prismatic white stabbed out and engulfed the wolf coming for Rogue; in a matter of seconds, it was completely engulfed in ice, maybe a foot thick, frozen directly onto the cracking street. 

It was then that everyone exploded into action.That was the plan: as soon as one of them used their powers, they were all supposed to use their powers - create so much chaos that he'd be hard pressed to pick out a single target. Scott didn't understand why Fenrir couldn't take them all out at one go, but Bob seemed to think that between him and "Cammy", Fenrir would find that well nigh impossible. 

Scott shot the wolf coming for him face on and at full blast, sending the thing flying across the street and into another parked car, which bent inward around the lupine as if it had actually been t - boned by a car and not an animal. He really was more powerful; he could feel the energy raging inside his bloodstream. He was so warm he wondered if he was feverish, or if it just seemed that way. 

At the same second he shot the Fenrir wolf, the wolf Bobby had frozen somehow burst into flames,and the raven let out a huge, distressed squawk as it began a death spiral down towards the street: Jean had telekinetically paralyzed its wings. Just for good measure, Scott shot it to and sent it flying over onto the next block in a burst of ebony feathers. 

Fenrir roared, just like he imagined a dragon would ( it was not a human noise for damn sure ) and suddenly there was a noise like breaking ice, and part of the road collapsed inward ... but sadly for Fenris, it was part of where his flaming wolf was, and it went plummeting down into a broken sewer pipe beneath the road.It may have made a noise - he wasn't sure. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rogue shaking her hands as if they were sore, and he belatedly realized she had sent the wolf into the sewer. Good job. 

Bob made a gesture, and now it was Fenrir's turn to go flying backwards with incredible force, but instead of doing a Bob and hitting a car, Fenrir went flying straight into his own flaming pyre at the end of the street. 

Now that was a three point shot if he had ever seen one. 

*** 

    Logan hid his bike and went to foot surveillance, telling Clia to go her own way or follow behind - at street level - as quietly as possible. He was tired of listening to her at this point. 

He scaled an apartment building at the end of the street, and as soon as he was on the roof, he saw the dark head of that big lizard thing about seven blocks east of his current position, and ... lights. Electric lights, in an apartment building three and a half blocks due North. Bingo. 

"Bastard, you're mine now," he muttered, looking over the edge of the building. It was what, an eight story drop? Oh, what the fuck? 

He stepped off the edge and dropped back down onto the sidewalk. 

He landed hard on his feet, an electric shock traveling up his legs on impact, and he stumbled slightly, regaining his balance in a haphazard sort of way.Okay, maybe he wasn't used to the really really big drops yet. 

"Fuck, Superman!" Clia exclaimed, so loudly it seemed to echo down the block. "Warn someone before you come plummetin' out of the sky!" 

He whirled on her with a snarl. "Do you even know what quiet means?" 

She scowled at him, shifting her heavy duffle bag to her other shoulder. "Since when is flyin' one of your powers? Shit, if you had said - " 

"I don't fly," It was so hard not to lose his temper. Why was he bothering not to? "I jumped from the roof. I have a metal skeleton, I don't break, I can do that. Got it?" 

She glanced up towards the top of the building - he doubted she could see in the dark - and then looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "You really are a crazy motherfucker, you know?" 

"Gee, Brokaw, thanks for the news flash," he snarled, turning away from her and stalking off North. 

He was hoping she'd take the hint and go, but of course not. "The bike's that way, Magellan." 

"I don't want 'em to hear me comin'." 

"So you know where they are?" 

Why wasn't he knocking her out again? If he was crazy, it'd be excused, right? "Three and half blocks up, this way." 

She was quiet for an entirely blissful five seconds, then said, "Mission Street? Kevin lives on Mission Street?" She snorted disdainfully. "Loser.No wonder he started a death cult." 

"Look, we should split up," he suggested, although it was order.If she didn't leave soon he wasn't going to be held responsible for what he did. 

"What, so we can get killed off one at a time, like in a bad horror movie? Fuck you, Chester." 

He wheeled on her and she almost walked straight into him before jumping back a step. "Clia, he can't do shit to us.Imalame - o still isn't completely formed yet, and Kevin ... well, he's fucking Kevin. Think you can't handle him?" 

She scoffed. "Of course I can handle him. He's not just a Human, he's a punkass dipshit Human." 

"Great. Make your way to Mission Street and take him out. I'll take Imadild - o." 

She stared at him as if he was the stupidest thing in existence. "What if they don't got that plan,Captain Marvel?" 

Okay, if she called him one more nickname, he was tossing her in the nearest dumpster. "I bet Imafuck - o knows I'm comin' 'cause I killed his bugs. Why the fuck would he know about you?" 

"Because he's an evil dickhead and they always know that kind of shit." 

Logan sighed, rubbed his eyes, willed himself not to lose it yet. "Life is not a comic book." 

"Says the superhero." 

He glowered at her. "I am not - " Okay, that was it, his patience with her was completely gone. "Go. Now." 

She rolled her eyes as she turned away, as if he was being the difficult one. "Man, it's gonna take a lot more than good fuck to loosen you up." 

He was tempted to say "How the hell would you know", but since he could remember absolutely nothing about their supposed night together, he decided he shouldn't give her ammunition for a smart ass comeback. He had to look at it this way - at least she was gone. 

Logan continued onward, stalking quietly, tensed for any action, alert for any noise or new scent, but it all seemed eerily peaceful as he closed in on the site. ( It struck him then as kind of ironic - in a town full of dead things, he was going towards the light. ) 

He sensed he wasn't alone first, a sort of familiar prickling on his skin, long before he felt the shift in the air. There wasn't a new scent, not really - apparently this guy, whoever he was, had his scent all over the place. Which made it impossible for him to zero in on his location. 

"You don't seem to understand what you could have here," a voice said. It was above him and below him, off to  the left and suddenly over on the right. He looked around, tried to triangulate on the noise, but it was hopeless: the demon was too good a ventriloquist. 

"Why don't you come and tell me," Logan replied, remaining where he was on the sidewalk. He wasn't going to make a move until he was sure where the fuck the thing was. But right now it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. 

"I don't need to tell you. I was impressed by your little display, you know. You're more vicious than most Humans - I like that. I think, rather than be at odds, we could work together." 

"Yeah, right. Is this where you make the bogus offer, and as soon as I accept it you try and kill me?" 

"Do I have to wait until you accept it?" The demon replied sarcastically. Logan had to admit - if only to himself - he had a point. "No, Logan, I think you know I can't kill you. That's why I propose a truce." 

He cocked his head, surreptitiously scanning the dark buildings around him, quietly sniffing the air. Nothing new - damn it! "So you're a telepath - is that supposed to impress me?" 

"No. Have you no interest in my offer?" 

"It's all bullshit. I know this is a trap, so spring it already. I wanna get outta here before the next century." 

It sounded like it chuckled, but it could have been nothing more than a stuttering burp. "It's not a trap, Logan, it is just what I said: an offer. Unreality has some advantages over what the others call reality, you know." 

"What?  Eiffel Tower sized cans of Raid? 'Scuse me if I pass." Where the hell was the bastard? Why didn't he make his move? 

"No, my dear Human. A chance to have a better life than this." 

Finally there was movement in the shadows up ahead, and he tensed and sprung his claws, stalking right towards the half assed bastard, waiting to see if he could cut something that had already been sliced ... 

But the smell was all wrong. It was familiar somehow, feminine, but he instantly dismissed the thought that it was Clia doubling back, because - female or not - she still smelled like a Belial. This woman was a Human.A woman who smelled faintly of almond and cinnamon, sandalwood and cherry blossoms, someone ... painful. 

He saw her and paused several seconds before she saw him and froze. "Logan?" It was Mariko, and he was disappointed that he could be fooled, no matter how briefly, by a ghost image. 

But could he hear the ghost breathing? If he let go and reached out with his senses, he could hear her heart beating frantically in her chest. He didn't hear that before; he didn't scent her so strongly before. 

He retracted his claws, but mostly in a dull sort of shock - he was feeling a million things at once, and they all seemed to collide and cancel each other out, just leaving him numb. 

"Riko," he breathed, not quite believing it, and yet believing it, his own heart gaining its own panicky rhythm. He could smell confusion from her, a little fear, but nothing like his own. She was not the demon in a guise; she was not a construct based on his faulty, scattershot memories. 

Alive. Mariko was alive. Again. 


	10. Part 10

19 

    There was a noise like the rumbling of a volcano just before an eruption, and Fenrir walked out of the blazing pyres,  currently on fire himself. 

But not for long - the fire just seemed to dance along his slick black clothes before mysteriously putting itself out, and of course he was no worse for wear. What was his connection to fire? He knew Doctor Grey had said something about Loki ( his dad? ) and fire, but Bobby couldn't remember what now. 

Actually, he was surprised he could think at all. How weird was this shit?! There were two mythological gods slugging it out on the street right in front of him - and one of them occasionally gave quantum physics lectures at the school! The substitute deity; Bob, the god of quantum mechanics. What was Bob the god of exactly? He knew for damn sure there was no god named Bob in mythology ( well, no, there was Bob of The Church of The Sub - Genius, but that was a joke ), or even a Robert. But he knew, since that was his unfortunate ( real ) first name as well, that it wasn't a very god - like name. Thor, Adonis, Zeus ... Robert? Robert, the god of plumbing, perhaps, or the god of sensible shoes. It just wasn't grand or awe inspiring. 

Which is why he knew Bob couldn't be his actual name - Bob was too good looking and awe inspiring to have that plain a name. 

The ground was shaking again, but he didn't think Marie was doing it - Fenrir was so fucking mad it was affecting everything around him. Bob was now bleeding from the eyes, blue tears dribbling down his face, but he stood his ground, proving why he and Logan made such a natural team: they weren't scared of anything, even some angry god coming right for them. He admired that, and wished he had it himself; if it wasn't for Marie, he'd have preferred to be back at the mansion, playing Resident Evil with John and her or something. Hell, even homework might not be so bad at the moment. Truth be told, as hard as he tried to pretend this didn't bother him at all, he was so freaked the hell out by all of this he was pretty sure - as soon as he got a moment to sit down - he was gonna barf. 

In fact, in retrospect, he couldn't believe he'd accepted all this gods and demons stuff so easily. Maybe it was because he was a mutant, so nothing actually seemed shocking, or Bob ... what did they call it? .. Bob pushed him to accept it.   
If so, maybe he should thank him. Assuming they survived all this. 

The wolf that Scott had hit and virtually embedded in a Honda charged Bob from behind, a black blur that barely registered in his vision and that was moving far too fast for him to hit, and even as he opened his mouth to shot a warning Bobby knew it was too late. 

Except this was where Bob showed that - in spite of his name - he was the god of cool. 

Bob pivoted quickly on his heels, snagged the wolf in what looked like a headlock in midair, and as he turned Bobby heard a big cracking noise - like someone snapping a board in half over their knee - and as he finished his spin, Bob tossed the huge wolf towards Fenrir as if it was nothing but a dirty t - shirt. "Save yourself," Bob said, and as soon as the limp wolf impacted with Fenrir, it burst into flames. 

No, not flames, just something like it - bright blue energy that made Fenrir howl and shy away, and dissolved the wolf into nothingness before it hit the ground. Holy shit, what was that all about ? 

And that's when Fenrir, balling up his huge hands into ugly fists, let out a scream of rage that made Bobby's ear pop, right before the street exploded under Bob. 

Pieces of road shot outward at what he bet was shrapnel like force, but he had the reflexes to duck and missed getting hit - he hoped Marie did too, because from this vantage point he couldn't see her. 

He couldn't see Bob either - huge chunks of the macadam were standing up like the tips of giant spears, sharp enough to cut, and maybe eight feet high. Was Bob in the middle of that? Where the hell was he?! 

Fenrir walked to the jagged edge of it, and seemed to look down, making a strange noise that sounded like rocks rattling around a drainpipe. Belatedly, he realized he was laughing. 

"Camaxtli isn't here, you stupid shit," Fenrir snarled, presumably to Bob. His voice was hard to listen to - it almost hurt the ears as much as trying to look at his face hurt the eyes. "And agents aren't good enough. You should have known that, reject." 

Bobby thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, behind Fenrir, and he leaned out of his alley to see a large car - a Cadillac? - hovering in mid - air. He guessed it was Doctor Grey levitating the car as it seemed to glide over the air towards Fenrir. He looked up just in time for the two ton vehicle to come crashing down on his head. 

With Fenrir smashed beneath the car, Scott started firing beams of energy at the huge chunks of pavement, blowing them into smaller chunks, and the ground trembled a bit more lightly, causing some of the big slabs to shift, even as some of them rose up into the air and were cast harmlessly aside telekinetically by Doctor Grey. 

( He couldn't even think of her as "Jean". She was a teacher who could lift a two ton car with her mind, and then hit somebody with it. It would probably take all his willpower not to call her "Sir". That was just too damn scary. Not Logan scary, but close. ) 

But with the bigger chunks of roadway cast aside, he could now see a huge pit in the middle of the street, maybe even deeper than the hole Marie had sent that first wolf into, and as far as he knew it could have tunneled straight into the earth. Could Bob have survived that? How far down did he fall? 

The car started to shift, and it looked as if it was being lifted up from beneath. Fenrir was still with them and coming around ... but where was Bob? 

Shit - what if he was dead? What if he'd died, and they were left alone to take on Fenrir? Should they keep going with the plan? Could they? What the fuck else could they do? It wasn't like they could get on the phone and call nine one one. 

Bobby dropped to one knee, a sniper's position, and held out his hands, ready to encase that ugly mofo in so much ice he'd have to burn it for at least a minute to get out. It wasn't much, but maybe it would buy them a modicum of time. 

Shit. Not for the first time, he really wished Logan were here. God or not, there was no problem he couldn't solve by turning it into chum. 

*** 

    He was pretty sure his heart stopped beating. Just for a second - not for the first time, and probably not for the last. 

Logan just stared at her, knowing this had to be some trick, some trap by the demon, and part of him was so furious he felt like he might explode. Using Mariko against him - fucker! He'd shove a fucking grenade up his ass and blow him to bits from the inside out! But another part of him ... felt strangely weak. Trick or not, she was here, she was ... 

No, he was not going to collapse on his ass like some swooning maiden in a bad black and white film. But god, he almost felt like doing it. He never felt this at a loss in his life. Well, not that he could remember ... not recently. 

Mariko seemed caught in her own paralysis, but recovered before he did. Her ebony eyes still wide in her shocked, pale  face, they seem to glisten with unshed tears as she collapsed forward, hugging him so tightly he was sure she was feeling for the skeleton beneath his skin. "Logan," she gasped, voice breaking with tears. "Where are we? Why don't I remember what happened?" 

He put his own arms around her as simple reflex, a part of his mind raging at him to let this phony bitch go and track down that half assed cocksucker for daring to fuck with him like this ... but she felt real. It was a terrible thing to discover yet another sense memory he didn't know he had, and it knew how Mariko felt in his arms. She felt just like this. She smelled right too, and her body was warm, although she was starting to shiver. 

This was wrong - he knew this was wrong - and yet he couldn't quite let her go. 

"Shh, it's okay," he said as pure reflex, knowing damn well it was the opposite of okay. She buried her face in his neck, and he could smell her hair, feel its silkiness against his cheek ... god, he didn't care if that fucking demon had no body to speak of, he'd find a way to tear him apart. 

Something constricted in his chest, making it hard to breathe, and she slid her arms around him, underneath his coat, seeking warmth. "Where the hell are we?" She asked again, sounding less panicky but slightly more defeated. "And why does it feel like I haven't seen you for ages?" 

"It's ... a long story." She'd been dead for what, twenty years now? More? The thought left him feeling a little weak in the knees. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the tears running down his face; they seemed as cold as ice. "But you're safe now." What a fucking lie - she was not safe, and apparently she never had been, no matter what he thought. 

"How can you tell?" She asked, with a tiny chuckle. 

That was a fair comment. "Nothing's attacked me yet." 

"Okay, that's a good sign." 

This was not his Mariko. She was dead; she was so long dead there were probably just bones in her coffin now, with a few slowly decomposing scraps of cloth. But ... she seemed like it. Even more than the ghost, and it wasn't just that she was warm and had a physical presence. It was ... something intangible, oddly enough, but still obvious. Just because he couldn't quite name it didn't mean it wasn't impressive. Part of him was still raging at the demon for this, but right now his most overwhelming instinct was to protect her. Maybe it knew that would happen; maybe that's what it was counting on. "I have to ... I have to get you off the street." He did; he had to hide her from that fucking demon, although he knew logically there was no hiding from it. Still, he had to get her out of plain sight - stupid or not, he couldn't walk away and leave her like this. 

He wasn't sure he could walk away and leave her at all. But he'd cross that moat when he came to it. 

It seemed physically painful to hold her away from him - an arm's length could have been a million miles - and when he did, he realized what a mistake it was: now he had to look into her tear streaked face, and it was like a knife to his heart. Now he wanted ghost Mariko back - it hurt, but not like this; it didn't cut straight through bone. 

The demon's plan was perfect. Before, he had nothing to lose; now he did. The fucking bastard! He didn't care what he had to do, but he would find a way to make him hurt before he killed him. 

Logan slipped off his jacket and draped it over her slender shoulders, sorry it was splattered with bug crud, but at least it was mostly dry now, and it was so dark she probably couldn't see it. Judging from her shivering, a silk blouse and a linen skirt weren't very warm. She slipped inside his jacket easily as he wiped the tears from his face with his forearm, and forced himself to look away from her, at the buildings around them. He knew the demon was gone, but only for now. 

"This is some real bad shit, isn't it?" She asked, although it hardly sounded like a question. 

"It looks worse than it is," he lied. "I can take care of it." By focusing on the scents around them, he was able to pick up a faint smell of latex interior paint - a recently painted apartment in one of the buildings. Maybe that meant it was unoccupied. 

She wiped her own tears from her face with the back of her hand, and gave him a faint smile. She seemed swamped by his coat, like it was a cape instead of a battered jacket. "I know you can." 

That made his gut twist, and he was going to tell her he couldn't always, but before he could she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, lips crushed against his. He responded without even thinking about it, retaining enough of a sense memory to know her kiss - 

( But the last time you kissed her, all you tasted was blood. ) 

- and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet. This was dangerous - he was losing what little ability he had to think straight. Maybe if he could have her back, it wouldn't be so bad. Reality sucked - why couldn't he start over with Mariko here? There'd be no "X Men", no Organization after him; maybe he could try and have something like a real life with her. Would that be so bad? 

Yes it would. Because this was a trick by the demon, and as soon as he was fully corporeal, he would control everything - he could take her away in a heartbeat, and probably would. He wanted him to suffer. And he would give him a few moments bliss with Mariko so he'd suffer all  that much more when he ripped her back out of his life. Fucker - did he think he was so stupid he wouldn't figure it out? 

As they kissed, Mariko's cool fingertips brushed the back of his neck like he remembered, and sent a small frisson of pleasure down his spine. He didn't know why, but she always seemed to hit just the right spot, a nerve cluster maybe. 

He had to stop. He put her down and broke away from her with all the willpower he had, which wasn't very much at the moment, and instantly turned away. "Come on," he gasped. Her hand found his and gripped it tightly, and he gave her hand a responding squeeze. He hoped she knew how much he wanted her; there just wasn't time. Maybe later; he hoped there was a later. 

Logan found the apartment building easily, and let the scent of paint lead him to a ground floor apartment. Smelling no one inside it, he used one claw to cut the lock and nudged the door open with his foot. 

It was a small three room apartment, unfurnished, the carpets still covered with tarps to catch the paint drips. Although it smelled strongly of paint to him, he knew she probably couldn't smell it at all. "I need you to stay here and wait for me," he said, turning to face her.  He thought the overwhelming darkness would hide her face, but she was closer to him because of it, and he could see her better in here. 

She frowned, a worry line forming between her slender brows. "Logan, you still haven't told me what's going on." 

He let go of her hand, but she grabbed his forearm, and somehow that was worse. "I can't, it's a long story. I promise I'll tell you when I come back." 

"I'm not just going to stay here and twiddle my thumbs - " 

"Please, Riko, you have to stay here. I can't risk taking you with me." 

She got that stubborn look on her face, one he only now realized he knew very well. "Okay, I'm no over trained Human weapon, but I can take care of myself." 

"That's not the point." 

"What is the point?" 

"I don't want to lose you again." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Oh shit. 

She gazed at him curiously, dark eyes widening, mouth setting in a way that he knew indicated she was trying desperately to hide her shock and failing. "What? What do you mean?" 

"Please, don't make me say it," he begged, knowing he sounded pathetic, but he couldn't look her in the eyes and say it. You're dead - my incompetence killed you. "I will explain when I get back, I promise." Maybe by then, he could think up a plausible lie. 

Her lips thinned to a stubborn line, and she shook her head. "No, Logan. You keep stalling, and you're making me imagine the worst. I can't just - " 

He took her face in his hands, and tried to think of something he could say that would make her play along. Was she a stubborn woman? God yes, of course she was - he seemed to have a thing for impossible women. "Please, Riko. If you ever loved me, you're gonna have to trust me now. Stay here, wait for me - I'll explain everything when I get back." 

She stared into his eyes, searched them for the truth, then nodded very slowly, a troubled look coming over her face. "You're scared. Why? What is it? Am I in danger, is that? Tell me." 

He kissed her, because it was the only thing he could think of to shut her up. But he knew the instant he did he never should have, because he enjoyed it way too much. So did she. 

They kissed until they were out of breath, and even then, as she took a breath, Mariko said, "Don't think I haven't noticed you're changing the subject." But she kissed him again, so he didn't have to worry about thinking up something else. 

She pulled him back, so now he had her up against the wall, her body pressing into his, her hands running through and pulling his hair, and in the back of his mind he knew this was wrong: there was no time for this, this might be the distraction the demon needs, Clia had presumably gone ahead and was waiting for him to commit to his part of the plan ... but Mariko was here, she was alive, and maybe this time he wouldn't screw it up. Maybe this time, he could keep her alive. 

She was holding him so close it reminded him how she used to cling to him so tightly when they made love, and he wanted to feel that again - he just wanted to be with her again, anywhere but here. 

Mariko had run her hands up his back, pulling up his shirt, her flesh against his making goosebumps spread over his skin; and he kissed her neck, feeling her heart beat under his lips, tasting the salt and chemicals of her sweat, another thing locked away in a sense memory. Senses were almost all he had now that his brain had been so fucked over. 

( It almost tastes like her blood. Remember the taste of her blood? ) 

Suddenly a bizarre wave of sorrow overcame him, drowning his lust, and he rested his head in the crook of her neck, trying to find the source and shut it down. "Logan," Mariko gasped, trying to catch her breath. She sounded curious and slightly troubled, as if she'd just been startled out of a dream. "Are you all right? What's wrong?" 

It was like something snapped inside of him; he didn't know what or why, but suddenly he started sobbing brokenly, as if she had just died again. Because she was dead; she had been dead. And it was all his fault. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, trying to swallow it back, tamp it down, control it, but he couldn't. It was like some emotional equivalent of a runaway train, and he couldn't seem to stop it. "I'm so sorry." 

"Shh," she whispered soothingly, stroking the back of his neck. In a reversal of what had happened on the street, it was now her turn to comfort him. "It's okay, love. It's okay." 

He wanted to tell her it wasn't, but he couldn't even talk; he couldn't even ask her to forgive him for failing her so badly. He struggled for several moments to take a deep breath, to swallow back tears and speak, but he realized he couldn't hope to stop while the scent of her was filling him. It was too much; he couldn't take it. It was going to kill him, but he couldn't stay with her anymore. 

Logan shoved himself away from her, sniffing and trying to blink away tears, and managed to say without looking at her: "Riko, I have to go. I'm sorry, I have to - " He couldn't finish the sentence; he tried to cover a sob in a cough, and turned back towards the open door, wiping his eyes with his forearm. 

"Logan," she said, and then hesitated. He glanced back at her, feeling a bit stronger now that he had gained some distance. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and he knew they were for him - and perhaps for what she finally guessed had been their fate. He thought maybe she'd protest, but to his surprise, she simply said, "Be careful." 

He nodded, feeling more tears spill from his eyes. "Stay here. I'll be back for you." His voice almost cracked on the last syllable, so he looked away and wiped the tears and snot from his face, mentally ordering himself to hold it together. Wasn't he the killing machine, the fucking heartless animal that Scott always expected to piss in the halls? So what the hell was this? He couldn't start being Human now - he had no time for it. 

Logan made himself stop in the doorway, and take one last look at her. Mariko - alive, breathing, real. It seemed unbelievable; it was unbelievable. " I loved you," he said, only belatedly realizing he had used the past tense. 

Maybe she didn't catch the tense shift since his voice was so clogged with snot. "I love you too.  Don't forget me." 

That brought fresh tears to his eyes, even though he tried to hold them back. "They can't make me." He left before he lost the strength to go. 

As it was, every step away was a struggle. He kept thinking he was walking away, leaving her behind again, alone, vulnerable ... and that was when he decided to shut down. It was simply too painful to go on with his conscious mind in charge, so he let it submerge, sink down, let the angry and heartless side - the one that could fight the telepaths; the one that was nothing but pure reflex - come forward. It was the only weapon he had to fight this pain. 

He no longer feared he had left her to die again; he didn't fear anything. The tears dried on his face, and he felt like he was turning to stone as he let cold rage take over, fill up all his empty spaces. 

That was the thing. To avoid the pain, it was best to feel nothing at all. And sometimes, it was just too damn easy. 

20 

    You would have thought a two ton car crashing down on top of your head would slow even a god down. 

But not for long. Scott looked on in muted horror ( well, too much horrific crap had already actually happened - he was getting inured to it ) as Fenrir stood, lifting the car over his head, and tossed it aside like a tin can. Bob still hadn't come back, and he wondered if he was ever going to appear again. It would be just like him to leave this mess in their hands. 

Bobby suddenly hit Fenrir with a ton of ice - before he was even aware of it, he was covered head to toe with the stuff, a God - sicle stuck to the broken roadway. 

But not for long. 

He basically flamed on, which Scott expected him to do ( Fenrir really loved fire ), but the flames seemed to leap right up the stream of ice Bobby was shooting at him as if it was lighter fluid. "Bobby!" Rogue shouted, horrified, but even though Bobby saw it, it was traveling too fast for him to do anything about it. 

Bobby hit the wall and iced up as a small tornado of flames roared down the alley he was in, and Scott closed his eyes, ripped off his visor, and shouted, "Don't pick on kids, asshole!" He then opened his eyes, looking straight at Fenrir. 

The force of the blast took even him by surprise. Without a visor to get in the way and dilute it, the force of the beams shooting from his eyes actually knocked him off his own feet, even as it sent Fenrir sailing across the street. Scott hit the brick wall behind him so hard it knocked all the air out of his lungs and it felt like he dislocated his shoulder, but he kept a death grip on his visor, even as he slid down to the pavement. He put it back on as he struggled to get his breath back, trying to ride out a strange wave of dizziness that left his head feeling like a helium balloon, and was glad Logan wasn't here. He could hear him now: "I'm not the one who almost knocked himself out ... " 

When his vision stopped pixelating, he saw that he had put Fenrir through the coffee shop at the end of the block, and that most of the building had collapsed in on him - maybe that had been Rogue or Jeannie helping out, or he really hit it hard enough to bring the whole thing down. God knew Scott was surprised he hadn't embedded himself in a wall. 

But of course the peace couldn't last. What was left of the street seemed to burst into flames, making them all leap back into their respective alleys ( except him, of course - he was flat on his ass inside one - and lucky thing for him ). There was a noise like a motorcycle engine revving inside an empty tunnel, and Scott realized as Fenrir walked out of  
the ruins of the coffee shop that it was Fenrir growling. Oh shit - he had really pissed him off. Well, at least he had pulled the attention off Bobby. 

He had just set foot on the river of fire that was the street when he suddenly went flying, tumbling ass over tea kettle before impacting the street about twenty meters away, the flames dying on the road as if doused with water. 

"Do you think I've gone soft in the head?" Bob asked, now standing in the center of the road. Scott hadn't seen him appear or climb out of the hole, so he assume he teleported, but he was still bleeding blue from the eyes, and now it looked like he was bleeding from the ears too. "You've got one chance here, Fen - why here, why now?" 

Fenrir pushed himself up to his knees, and just his slow movements seemed to indicate that Bob had put a hurt on him. "It's not about you, exile. You're just a cog; a footnote on the page. This realm isn't yours to rule, Aurelia - this realm has none, and needs one." 

"And I guess that ruler is you, is it?" Bob's voice had subtly changed: his Aussie good old boy accent had mutated into a strange sort of refined yet imposing accent, something Scott had never heard before. He thought that, much like Fenrir's, it was something other than Human. 

"Chaos already reigns here. Who better than me?" Fenrir rose to his feet, and with a raised fist sent several parked ( and damaged cars ) flying, plowing straight into Bob. And then, before anyone else could react, the entire pile of metal on Bob burst into flames, gas tanks exploding like popcorn kernels and vomiting molten metal debris all over the street. 

Scott thought Rogue screamed in horror, but he honestly couldn't hear anything over the consumptive roar of flames. 

Camaxtli's powers must have really come through, because Bobby was still well enough that he attempted to ice over the flames and douse them, but they burned far too hot for him to even get a foothold, the ice vaporizing the millisecond it was formed. The pile of flaming cars did topple over though - Jeannie or Rogue; again, he wasn't sure -   
but there appeared to be nothing but a flaming crater beneath it all. 

Even Fenrir seemed confused, until  Bob appeared about twenty feet behind the pile of flaming metal, giving him a grin colder than anything Bobby could generate on his best day. "Stupid ass motherfucker. Did you forget about Balder's gate?" 

Okay - again, Bob had left something out of the briefing. 

"That's a myth," Fenrir scoffed, although he didn't sound completely sure of that. 

"Guess what, asshole - so are we," Bob shot back, as Kitty came out of hiding. 

She was already phased, which was a good thing considering all the flaming detritus about, and she ran fast, through the wall of the bookstore, through a car or two, and straight behind a still unsuspecting Fenrir. Bob had given her something before he left the mansion, something that looked like a large, thick  gold coin with ... a picture of a gate on it. Balder's gate? 

Kitty looked completely terrified, but to her credit, she stuck to the plan - she phased her arm right inside Fenrir's back and then pulled it out, leaving the coin inside his chest. 

Fenrir turned, swinging his arm violently, and even though Kitty yelped in fear and jumped back, his arm phased right through her harmlessly. "What the fuck?" He exclaimed. "Ghosts can't do that ... " 

Jean used her telekinesis to pick up a huge chunk of broken macadam and hit Fenrir upside the head with it, and as he stumbled from the blow, Scott shot a beam at him, low in the knees. It worked like he thought it would - it took his legs right out from under him, and sent him crashing to the street. 

"You should really know your mythology, Fen," Bob taunted, his Aussie accent slowly creeping back into his voice. "Sometimes it can come back to bite ya on the ass." 

Fenrir tried to get up, but stopped. He let out an agonized roar that shook the ground and caused the various piles of ruins to shift and avalanche, and he grabbed his chest as if trying to physically reach in and rip the coin ( ? ) out of himself . But then he just ... Scott wasn't sure what he had seen at first. It looked like he turned inside out and was instantly sucked into a pinprick sized hole of nothingness inside the center of his own torso. 

The coin fell to the ground, making the smallest of ringing sounds as it rolled on its rim before coming to rest on the pitted pavement where Fenrir had been just a moment ago. 

Okay, what the fuck had just happened? 

Scott used the wall to help himself back up to his feet - the pain in his right shoulder was sharp but fading - and saw Rogue pick her way across the street, calling out nervously, "Bobby?" 

"I'm okay," he replied, although Scott thought he sounded shaken. "That'll teach me to go all hero on a fire god, huh?" 

Scott looked towards the odd coin, still laying in the street, and started towards it. Balder's gate didn't sound familiar at all. But then he heard Jean's voice in his mind. *Something's wrong, Scott.* 

"Bob?" Rogue called curiously, and Scott looked down the street, where he had last seen Bob. 

He wasn't there anymore. Or was he? Rogue suddenly broke into a run, and shouted, "Jean, get down here!" He assumed the Loa in her made her revert to Jeannie's first name - or maybe not. Hard to tell with Rogue sometimes. 

He changed direction and joined her before Jean could, and saw that Bob was indeed still around - laying flat on his back in the street, in a slowly growing pool of cobalt blood. "Bob?" Rogue asked, sounding heartbroken, keeping her distance from the pool of gore. It looked like she wanted to go by his side, but she didn't want to step in his blood, and couldn't get that close to him anyways. "Oh god." 

*Does he have a pulse?* Jean sent him. She wasn't down from the building yet, and even if she was, she couldn't touch Bob either. 

Does he need one, he thought back, coming to kneel beside Bob, feeling the blood soaking into the torn leather of his uniform pant leg. He put a hand on his throat, feeling for the carotid artery, and eventually felt something. Bob was still bleeding from the eyes and ears, and what looked like a huge blue gash in his stomach that he hadn't noticed before. 

"Is he dead?" Rogue asked. Bobby came up beside her, looking slightly ashen but not apparently burned. Icing up had probably spared him that. 

"No, there's a faint pulse," he said aloud, adding in thought for Jean: But very thready. He was hardly a doctor, but he knew that wasn't good. 

"I thought he was like Logan," Rogue said, as Kitty joined their ragtag group, a hand over her mouth and tears welling in her eyes.  "I thought he didn't get hurt for long." Scott was forced to shrug; it was hard to say what Bob was or wasn't capable of doing. "Can he die?" 

Scott didn't even attempt to answer that one, because honestly he didn't know. But he supposed if Fenrir could die, Bob could too. 


	11. Part 11

21 

    For a half assed, abortive mutant terrorist group, they'd had some pretty neat stuff. 

Apparently Sun, the dude/chick ( "Two two two sexes in one! " ), had been part of some burgeoning mutant terrorist group that was completely stillborn, due to a lethal combination of apathy and confusion - they knew they wanted to strike out against the "mundanes", but they weren't sure exactly how. And then suddenly being a terrorist seemed like a bad thing, and all anyone wanted to do was get high and watch cartoons. In the end the group - all four of them - broke up when the quasi - leader, Phil ( what kinda terrorist leader was named Phil?! ) - moved to Sudbury, and they lost the house where they would hang out, smoke blunts, and watch Spongebob Squarepants. Chi then decided to hitchhike to Montreal, and the group was officially Sun - who generally slept in the park, which wasn't a park more than it was a cemetery - and a guy nicknamed "Spud", who lived in his parent's basement and was already a chronic alcoholic at the age of twenty. He kept the weapons hidden in a crawlspace with some empties, but sold what he could for both beer and bail money. As it turned out, Spud got himself hauled in for drunken driving on the weekend, and since he was drunk enough to mouth off to a cop, an extra charge got thrown on, and his parents decided not to bail him out. As a result, he was still in the stir. 

Sun had broken into his basement place to steal the shotgun, but didn't stay, as Spud's parents had a "yippie little dog" that hated him/her. It hadn't been too far away - they lived down on Cherry Avenue, just five blocks from the truly piss poor Mission Street. Logan had gone in because he claimed he could do it quietly, and when the little dog started yipping at him through an upstairs door ( and Clia knew by the sound of it it was one of those pampered lap dogs that deserved to be squished like a bug ), he growled. It really was an impressive growl - sounded sort of like a cougar - and the dog shut up instantly. She could imagine its little claws clicking on the linoleum as it ran away and found a good hiding place, as far from the scary creature in the basement as possible. Some "guard" dog. 

And to Logan's credit, in spite of his size, disposition, and weight ( he felt as twice as heavy as he looked ), he was amazingly quiet busting into the place, showing a sort of animal grace that seemed wrong on a guy who clearly relished his macho stud status. He missed his calling as a cat burglar. 

There wasn't much in Spud's crawlspace, beyond a year's worth of empty malt liquor bottles and a few random sidearms. But under a mildew stained army jacket, Logan found some explosives sealed in watertight plastic, and a pair of infrared binoculars that he said were "Army issue", but Logan didn't explain how he knew that.  They packed it all up in a duffle bag also - to use military parlance - "liberated" from Spud, and while Logan carried it out, somehow she ended up with it. Typical. 

She was to take what she needed and leave the bag at the head of Mission Street, so if Logan needed anything he could get it. He didn't designate where to drop the bag, as he'd "find it by smell" - how creepy was that? It was bad enough knowing someone with super smell; she couldn't imagine how bad it must have been actually having it. 

Clia glanced at Kevin's sad little rooming house type apartment - indeed, the only building on the entire block with electricity - and looking through the infrared binoculars saw a Human form - had to be his - lurking near the door, holding a small object that registered as cold, probably metal. A gun? 

See, she told Logan the bad guys always knew the plans! But did Mr. "Stick up his muscular butt" listen to her? No. Jesus - Humans. Even mutant Humans! No better than the garden variety. 

Still, did Fishhead think she was just going to walk in and get blasted? How stupid did he think she was? 

She put away the binoculars, checked to make sure the semi - automatic pistol she pulled out of Spud's stash had the safety off, and stalked off down the street to his place. 

Clia stayed in the shadows in case he glanced out the door, but Kevin wasn't that smart. There were window insets around the door, but they were those pseudo - stained glass kind that you couldn't look through. You could see light through them though, and she could see the shadow of Kevin loitering on the left side of the door. What a moron. Was he born that stupid, or is that what too much cheap beer and masturbation did to your brain cells? 

Humming an old Butthole Surfers tune ( what had ever happened to them? ), she got right up on the sidewalk and took aim at him through the window. She could have shot him in the head, but no, she had some questions to ask him, and she had no interest in setting up a seance. So she took aim at what she assumed to be his side, and fired. 

After the pop of the gun and the shattering of the glass, the funniest noise was Kevin's confused, heartfelt, "Ow!" 

She quickly kicked open the door and ran inside the rooming house's tiny foyer, only to find him standing back, hand on his bloody shoulder, his gun temporarily forgotten. He was giving her a look so wounded she almost laughed. "What the fuck did you do that for?" He whined. 

She scoffed. "You were gonna shoot me, dickhead!" 

"I was not! I was waitin' for some mutant bitch!" 

She had no idea he knew any mutants. "Who? And why?" 

"I dunno! Just some bitch travelin' with some super mutant asshole who Sygratha thinks is gonna ruin everything." 

Well, super mutant asshole certainly described Logan. But he'd been traveling alone since she'd met him. Well, except for ... "I ain't a mutant!" She snapped indignantly. 

"Who said you were?" He straightened up as best he could, blood running through his fingers, and his expression was so pained she wondered when he was going to burst into tears. 

She shook her head. You couldn't buy this kind of stupidity. "I've been traveling with him, asshole." 

Confusion washed over his face, followed by a slow dawning comprehension she could have timed with a watch. "You've been - fuck, was that the jerk off on the phone?!' 

She leveled her gun at him, deciding to keep her joke about him knowing everything there was to know about jerking off to herself. "Drop the piece before I take your other arm."He glared at her balefully, but he did drop it on the floor. "Kick it over here," she added. "Gently." 

He did, but he kicked like a Catholic school girl, and it barely got half way across the floor."Why the hell are you working against Sy? Yer a demon for Christ's sake!" 

"So? What, do you think all demons stick together, like all Humans stick together?" 

He grunted an acknowledgment. "Good point." 

"Take me to the book, Kevin." 

He stared at her with his stupid, bovine like brown eyes, obviously not comprehending any of this. "Huh?" 

"The book, the one you used to raise ... Sygratha, is that his name? I want it, Kev." 

"What? Why?" 

"Because. Now get a move on before you become the armless wonder in the Jim Rose circus sideshow." 

He gave her a look that could have blistered paint, but he turned and started leading the way down to his place, figuring she was serious. 

Well, you could never trust a demon, could you? 

*** 

    The demon was getting stronger by the second. You could feel it like a static charge in the air, smell it, taste it like metal in the back of your throat. Logan could almost see it hanging in the air before him, a dark thread of fire deeper than black, leading him straight towards his target. His vision narrowed, his senses focused, and there was nothing in his mind but the thought of  finding it and killing it. 

It was Northeast of Mission Street, hovering about a foot over the pavement, deep black tendrils swirling around him like a personal tornado as his body began to fill itself in, a background picture coming to the fore, and he was distantly glad. If it had a physical presence, he could hurt it before he killed it. 

It turned its three fourths completely head towards him as he started towards it, and seemed to sneer at him, a strange triumph glittering in it onyx eyes. "Not protecting the wifey, mutant? Do you think that's wise? She's only Human." 

He let the words wash over him as so much noise; random syllables with no meaning. Logan let his hands fall to his side and popped his claws, the pain of it as distant as everything else. A troubled look came over the demon's face, and its thin, half formed lips twitched. "Are you drugged? I'm not picking up your thoughts." 

A lie. He was picking up his thoughts;he just wasn't picking up any thoughts he could use against him. "Ready to die?" He growled, and then lunged at him claws first. 

*** 

    Kevin's basement apartment seemed even sadder than Spud's below ground hovel; obviously his mother didn't tidy up after him. Nor did she cook for him, judging by the smell of burnt macaroni and cheese. She stood by the door, gun centered on his back, as he went to retrieve the book. "You're screwed, you know that?" He said. 

"No." 

"Sy'll kick your ass for this." He was looking one handed through a drawer in his poor excuse for a kitchenette. He kept the book here? 

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, not believing this asshole. "Really? Here's a news flash for you, home slice - the first thing your "Sy" is gonna do once he's fully phased in is kill your scrawny ass." 

He glanced up at her peevishly, piggy face crinkling as if she was the stupidest thing he had ever met. "He owes me." 

"Bullshit! The more powerful the demon, the less they give a fuck about you. He needed you until he could get a grip on this reality - as soon as he does, you're irrelevant. In fact,  you'll be the first thing he gets rid of 'cause you'll remind him of  when he was weak. I think you're the screwed one here, dude." 

"He ain't killin' me," he snapped bitterly, finishing his search. He turned to face her, an old book held in his one good hand, but he was in no hurry to hand it over. He had a plan, did he? She bet it was real funny. "So where's this mutant freak, anyways?" 

Was that the plan? Distraction? Or did he honestly think that without her "protector", he could take her? If she was that much of a pussy, he deserved to kick her ass. "Taking out your Sy." 

He sneered. "Yeah, right. It's too late; he's too far along. Your mutie boyfriend is about to get himself killed." 

She thought about about all those broken monster bodies and Logan standing among them, dripping with their blood, his teeth bared in a leering smile as he held up his huge claws, just waiting for one of them to twitch, move, spasm, anything. Even beneath the gore, he seemed to be flushed with ecstatic victory, almost post orgasmic to be ankle deep in blood. The guy was fearless; but, moreover, he was completely fucking nuts. 

And somebody's killing machine, whether he realized it or not. He was too good at it to be anything but a pro. 

She grinned coldly at Kevin, flashing her teeth in a way designed to unnerve him. "Sorry Kev, but I don't think he's the one dyin' right now." 

*** 

    His claws slashed through something that was slightly more rubbery than flesh; it was more like whale blubber than anything Human. 

But even as the thing made a noise that could have been pain, something shot through him, agony like a knife that came to rest in his brain, flooding his vision with a putrid yellow light. 

Logan lost his balance and hit the street hard, scraping his face on the macadam, and as his vision came back he saw the demon seemed to be bleeding black vapor from the massive wound bisecting its mostly formed torso. "It's too late, Human. This world is mine to lose, and you have no place in it. Go back to your woman while you still can." 

But half formed face or not, the pain in his expression was clear as ice. Logan gave him a snarl that was mostly teeth and left that as his answer, as he was beyond speech, too lost in his own rage to form anything but inarticulate syllables. 

He'd hurt the fucking thing. It had hurt him too, but he knew he'd recover faster. 

Growling, Logan jumped to his feet and lunged for him again, aiming for the head. 

*** 

    "Aw fuck," Kevin cursed, as the book dropped from his hand and he grabbed at his bleeding shoulder. 

Clia rolled her eyes. Wuss. "Quit stalling." 

"You shot me," he whined, glaring balefully at her as he knelt down to grab the book. "It fucking hurts." 

"It's only in the shoulder, wimp," she replied, noticing he was reaching under the tiny gap between the floor and the cupboard. Not a lot of room, but some guns were pretty small, weren't they? 

"Word of advice, Kev: never try and bullshit a liar demon. You pay for it badly in the end." He looked up at her curiously, guilt flashing through his eyes, and she pulled the trigger. 

It was a terrific shot, even if she didn't think so herself. It hit him straight him between the eyes, and the back of his skull blew out, seemingly exploding all over the kitchenette, splattering blood, bone fragments, and brain matter in a wide pattern that was almost pretty. She could have displayed it as a modern art piece. 

She went over to his fallen corpse and kicked the book over onto its face. It was an old abridged dictionary - just as she thought. It was probably left by the previous tenant, as she couldn't see Kevin owning a book, nonetheless a dictionary. Fine; she'd find the book herself. 

Clia used her shirt to wipe the prints off the gun before putting it on the counter, and went to search the rest of his grotty little apartment. He had to have the book hidden around this shithole somewhere. 

*** 

    Logan hit the brick wall of  a closed bar so hard he thought he heard his teeth rattle. He took most of the impact on his shoulder, but still he slid down to the pavement, waiting for his vision to clear. 

The noise the demon made was painful, but it was still hovering over the street, swathed in black smoke that writhed around him like a living thing. "Stupid creature, you can't kill me," it snarled, its voice sounding like gravel running through a stump grinder. Logan knew that was true, but he also knew the thing was hurting, and was pretty well pissed off about it; its head still bore the marks of his claws, and the healing seemed to be slower than last time. He was physical now - more or less. 

Not that he wasn't aching too, but he was glad about that; pain only infuriated him. In fact, the taste of his own blood in his mouth was about to drive him over the edge, and he couldn't let that happen. He forced himself up to his knees and crawled off, following a familiar scent trail, feeling the burn of  something healing in his gut and his shoulder. 

"There's nowhere to go, coward," the demon taunted him. "Reality is mine, pest - you're just a puppet." 

On the next block, he was healed enough that he forced himself to stand, using a wall to help him. He knew what he wanted was there, so he focused on that scent trail, blocking everything else out. If the demon tried to read him, he'd see only the raw rage that unsettled him so much. 

He was droning on about something, but Logan no longer paid any attention to him. He just went on, zombie like, letting rage and the pain of healing fill his head.It wasn't difficult. 

As he passed Mission Street he smelled fresh cordite, blood, but he didn't think about it. Clia was on her own, and Kevin was irrelevant now anyways. ( But it wasn't demon blood he smelled ... ) 

He picked up the biggest bundle of what he needed, and started back towards the self - impressed demon. He was peripherally aware the sky was changing - dark ribbons of energy pulsed like veins, radiating out towards where the horizon would be - if it existed anymore - but it was another thing he couldn't think about. 

He knew from sound that the demon was in the same place, so he pulled out his lighter and lit the fuse. 

The fuse didn't hiss, like it usually did in old movies or t.v. shows. It made such a small noise it could have been an insect, or a remarkably persistent snake. The demon didn't notice - he was too enamored by the sound of his own voice - and Logan held it until the last second. He didn't look to see where he was throwing it, just tossed it around the corner, towards the sound of the demon's voice, and ducked behind the wall. 

The explosion was loud, violent, and finally shut the demon the fuck up. 

Sun's "terrorist group" wannabe was pathetic - Magneto would have laughed his helmet off - and they didn't even have proper explosives, just dynamite that "Spud" ( he had wracked his brain to figure out how that nickname related to a mutant ability - multiple eyes? The ability to become a potato at a moment's notice? Oh sure, he called Srina Spud, but that was a joke ... ) was able to nick from his brother's workplace ( his brother was a demolitionist ). It was dynamite set to work with fire as opposed to the more common electrical current, because apparently wasn't sure he could work the other kind. It was so sad it was funny. 

Logan glanced around the corner to see a huge crater in the road where the demon had been hovering a minute before, and while there was black smoke swirling around like disturbed snakes, he didn't see his body or parts of it. So he just decided to blast the whole area. 

Logan tossed one stick of dynamite in after the other, nearly deafening himself with the blasts, causing little fragments of the concrete facade of the building he was hiding behind to rain down on him, opening up little cuts on his scalp and arms that healed the split second they were made, almost creating a paradox. 

He wanted to hurt it first, but hey, if it was physical, only blowing it the fuck up was gonna kill it, right? 

The sky started to change by the time he lobbed in the sixth stick of dynamite. It seemed to crack like an eggshell, then pieces of it seemed to melt, revealing the real sky beyond. It was the color of blood oranges, suggesting the sun was just now setting somewhere still out of his view. 

Logan finally stopped when he ran out of sticks of dynamite, and the road was pretty much destroyed, along with all the windows on the block. But he couldn't even smell the demon anymore, and the only black smoke around was the result of detonation. 

He looked down at the crater that had split the road in half ( it looked as if an Air Force fighter dropped a two ton bomb on Saint Michel ), the explosions still resonating in his eardrums, and he said to the air, "I bet that stung like fuck." He coughed, as the air was still thick with pulverized concrete, pavement, dirt, and demon, and then started back the way he had come. He had no desire to check in on Clia - she could take care of herself - he just wanted to see how much reality had been altered ... or not. 

It wasn't hard for Logan to find the apartment, as the paint smell was still quite pungent, in spite of the odor of blasting powder still stinging his nose. He couldn't believe; he couldn't set himself up for a fall like that. But ... 

"Riko?" he said, coming to the door. It was still slightly ajar, as he had left it, so he nudged it open with his boot and glanced inside. 

The orange light of day made the white walls look flesh colored, and the tarp on the floor looked as if it had been splattered with demon blood, but no, it was just paint. There was something huddled in the corner of the empty living room, but it was just his coat, dropped there as if abandoned. 

He had been expecting this; he told himself that. He told himself this was no surprise at all, that he knew this would happen as soon as he traded unreality for reality, because his reality hadn't changed. He knew that; this was no shock. And yet somehow it still was. 

Logan picked up his coat and could smell her on it, her scent dissipating quickly in the rank air of paint fumes, as that was reality and she hadn't been. He sank down to the floor, holding the jacket to him like a lover, breathing in the rest of her scent until it faded away completely, existing only in his poor, shattered excuse for a memory. 

"I'm sorry," he said to no one in particular, swallowing back the sudden lump in his throat. 

The funny thing was, if the demon had wanted his soul for her, he'd have gladly sold it. But that wasn't the price he was asking, and he knew, in the end, he'd have been cheated anyways. 

But it might have been worth it. 

*** 

    "Where the fuck have you been?  I thought the disco demon gasbag got ya," Clia said, as he approached the corner of Mission Street. "Or maybe you blew yourself up." She thought the latter more likely than the former, because he was as crazy as a shithouse rat - old Sy must have forgotten that reality only mattered to the sane. Not that Logan was completely nuts, but a side of him was; it was like he had a split personality, Jeckyll and Hyde, but it was mostly under his control. Weird. What kind of psychological trauma and/or conditioning could make that happen? 

Logan shook his head, and frowned at the smell. "Been book burnin'?" 

She studied him curiously. He looked strangely somber, sane, but like he'd just lost his best friend ( assuming he had friends ). "Yeah, the book he used to raise the demon. I thought I'd better destroy it in case some other loser got a dumb ass idea in his head." 

He nodded, and she realized he was actually depressed. Post battle let down? That worked out for her, because he didn't care about the book, and wouldn't check to see if she was lying or not. "well, now that I can, I'm leavin'. I mean - " 

She nodded in understanding - she'd actually been hoping he would say that. "It's cool, man. I'm blowin' this shithole myself, heading to Toronto," Vancouver actually, but hey, she was a liar demon. "It's been real and all, but - no offense - I hope I never see your hairy ass again." 

He smirked, and said, "Yeah, I understand. Take care of yourself." 

"You too." 

He gave her a final nod and walked away, and she was so glad he was not one of those sappy type of Humans who thought some world class fucking meant anything more than that. She waited until he was out of sight before she walked back to the alley closest to Kevin's hovel, and retrieved the book of Sygratha. 

She had burnt his abridged dictionary, on the off chance Logan wanted to destroy the book. How in the hell could she have destroyed it? She bet it was worth a fortune on the demon antiquities market. 

Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there? 

Clia walked off down the street, humming happily to herself, her million dollar book tucked under her arm. 

22 

    Logan didn't think he'd be happy to see the mansion, and no, he wasn't, but it was nice not to be trapped in Saint Michel. 

He parked the bike in front of the place as Sun said, "Wow. When you said it was a mansion, I thought you were kidding. This place is fucking huge!" 

Bringing Sun along was a last minute decision. He was just driving out when he passed by the last place they'd dropped off Sun, and she - then morphed back into a he - was out on the sidewalk, checking out the returned sky. He stopped, asked if she ( he ) wanted a place to crash among other mutants, since he knew damn well she ( he ) had no other place to go. He hadn't found out the whole story about the parents, but honestly he didn't care. Sun certainly had nothing else going on ( and wanted to get out of Saint Michel before it "closed up" again ), so he ( she ) instantly jumped at the chance. 

"Remember, best behavior," he told her ( she was now a female again ), feeling a bit  like a hypocrite. Oh well. "No more terrorist groups." Although he hesitated to say what she ( he ) had going on was ever even within a light year of terrorist group - it was closer to simple drunken boredom. 

"Got it." 

The door opened, and Jean was standing there, staring at him with wide eyes. "Logan," she gasped, like he had just returned from the dead. "I thought I sensed you." She came forward, and he thought she might try and hug him, but she stopped when she saw Sun behind him. 

"Jean, this is Sun Novotny, a gender metamorph with nowhere else to go. Sun, this is Doctor Jean Grey, a teacher and a telepathic telekinetic who'll kick your ass if you step out of line. Got it?" 

"Got it," Sun agreed, still looking around the grounds in wide eyed fascination. 

"A gender metamorph?" From her tone of voice and the way her eyebrows raised, that was new to her too. "Well, welcome to the Xavier Institute, Sun." 

Sun finally looked at her, and said, "Cool. I can stay here?" 

"All mutants are welcome here," she then grimaced, her brow creasing as she got a good look at Sun's face. "What happened to you? Do you need medical attention?" 

Jean noticed the bruises. They were slightly less prominent on her female face, maybe because she took the beating as a male. "Oh, no - Logan took me to a hospital, even though I told him not to." 

"I don't take orders from people with concussions," he told her, not for the first time. 

Jean raised an eyebrow at him, giving him an openly questioning look. "Is that where you've been?" 

As Sun squeezed past Jean into the mansion, she added, "He saved my butt. The guy kicks ass." 

Jean glanced at him, and gave him a warm smile. "Oh, I know." 

He supposed if he was in the mood for it, this would have been premium flirting time, but he was in no mood at all. He'd driven all night with a slightly whiney Sun, and he couldn't quite shake the thought that he might have been better off taking his chances in unreality with Mariko. Logically, he knew the demon never would have allowed it to go on for long, but maybe he could have thought of something ... 

"Oh cool, is Spongebob on?"Sun said, disappearing into the front room. 

Once Logan was inside the hall, Jean closed the door behind him, and said, "When the Professor couldn't find you with Cerebro, we were worried." 

He instantly thought "No, you were worried - who else could give a fuck?", but he didn't say it. "I was okay, I was just in unreality for a bit." 

"Unreality?" 

"Long story. I can't really explain it - ask Bob. I think he has to explain it to me anyways." He then looked at her curiously. "Why were you lookin' for me?" 

And that's when Jean told him about the battle with Fenrir as she led him down to the basement, and to the special medical unit. 

It was hard to believe they fought an angry god, but with Bob anything was possible. He was surprised they survived, although he had a feeling, since she was leading him to the i.c.u. , someone got hurt pretty bad. "Who's down?" He wondered. He also wondered what the hell "Balder's gate" was, but he assumed that explanation would be forthcoming. 

She grimaced, glancing down at the floor to avoid his eyes, and he got a sick feeling in his gut. "Rogue?" 

She shook her head. "Bob." 

"Bob?" He couldn't believe it, not even when the doors to the unit slid open, and he saw Bob laying on a hospital bed. 

Jean winced, as they were immediately assailed with loud music, and Helga, who was loitering by his bedside, turned to face them. "Logan, where the fuck have you been?" She said, even as she came over and enfolded him in a huge bear hug, threatening to crush his ribs. 

He gave her an awkward hug back, glancing over at Bob. He expected him to sit up and say, "Had you fooled, didn't I?" But he didn't, and he looked somehow diminished under the white sheet, more bluish than was healthy, his hair a complete molten gold, like frozen sunlight. What had happened to the brown? Although he had an oxygen mask on his nose and mouth, there were no machines attached to him, save for a single i.v. that smelled like it contained a saline mixture. "How is he?" He wondered. 

"Comatose," Helga said, as she slipped out of his arms. She then hit him hard on the shoulder, avoiding bone and going straight for muscle. 

"Hey!" He snapped irately, grabbing his shoulder. "What the fuck was that for?!' 

"That was for not being here, you jerk! I count on you to look after Bob when he's being a stupid asshole!" 

"Yeah well, sorry, but I was off bein' a stupid asshole myself!" He replied indignantly, rubbing his arm. What a pair he and Bob were - Helga had bad taste in men. 

"Maybe you should turn the music down,"Jean suggested, wincing at it. 

"Why? He loves At The Drive In. I thought it was good for coma patients to have something they like playing." 

Logan considered that, realizing the words the singer was screeching were words Bob had sung before. So he really didn't make up all those lyrics up. He wasn't sure if he should be frightened or not. "Did I miss Soul Coughing and Mr. Bungle?" 

"Yeah." Helga walked back over to Bob's bedside, tail twitching restlessly, and sat down in a chair beside it. She looked tired, and as if to prove that, she rested her head on Bob's chest. It looked so fucking sad he couldn't bear to see it. 

"Has there been any change?" he whispered to Jean. 

She looked sad as well - the scene had gotten to her too. She came up very close to him to whisper, "No, none. he barely registers as a background psionic hum to the Professor and myself, and we know that's a bad sign." 

He had a suddenly sick gut feeling about it "Did you put that i.v. in by hand?" If Jean had touched him and wasn't hurt, Bob was brain dead. 

She shook her head, and he was quietly relieved. "I did it telekinetically. I didn't want to risk touching him, and I couldn't see talking Scott through such a procedure. He's not a medic." 

"Why no machines? Ya know, monitorin' him and stuff." 

"Oh, I tried, but he still has enough residual energy to make them catch fire. So after the sprinkler system went off, I thought it was best to give up on machines." 

She had a point. And if the sudden shower didn't wake him up, there was no point in getting him damp. 

"Hey, Red," Helga said loudly, looking over at the both of them. "Can you piss off for now? I gottta talk with the hairy guy." 

Jean scowled at her, something like annoyance ( jealousy? ) flashing in her eyes. "The name is Jean," she replied icily. 

Helga waived her tail dismissively. "Yeah, whatever. Can we have some privacy now?" 

Jean frowned at him, obviously wanting an answer for Helga's obnoxious behavior, but he only shrugged as he turned away. Jean and Helga just seemed to hate each other; call it fire and water, oil and vinegar, or uptight telekinetic and freewheeling demon, the chemistry between them  was just all wrong. 

As soon as Jean was gone, he asked, "What is it?" 

He assumed she had something to tell him that Jean couldn't - or wouldn't - understand. She looked at him with pained jade eyes, and admitted miserably, "This is all my fault, Logan." 

Helga never struck him as the guilty type, so this surprised him. "How in the hell is this your fault? You didn't sic Fenrir on him, did you?" 

"No, but I might as well have." She looked at Bob's remarkably slack face, as if he might wake up and argue with her, but he continued to lay there as still as a corpse, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath. "It was the T'Karii. They wanted me." 

Now he was really confused. "Wait, I thought it was Fenrir." 

"It was Fenrir who did the damage, but somehow the T'Karii let him out." 

It took him a moment to place the name - the crime family demons Helga used to be associated with, right? "How could they do that? And I thought they were all dead anyways." 

"Not all - the Watchers couldn't have cleared out every single branch. And those that survived must have known about my association with Bob, so they brought out the biggest gun they could manage: Fenrir." 


	12. Part 12

He mulled that over, aware that this made less sense than usual. "So you're saying Fenrir only came here to kill you?" 

"No, he's a god, not a hit man. But I would have been among the dead if Bob hadn't pushed me to stay away." She hit Bob on the arm, but more softly than she had hit him. "Bastard." 

Logan leaned against the nearest counter and crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to sigh. He was tired, he was pissed off, he hated himself and everyone in this fucking world,and his brain hurt. God, he needed a beer. "If you knew they had Fenrir on their side, why didn't you warn him? 

Helga gave him a death stare, which was pretty impressive coming from a green skinned demon. "I didn't know, all right? The T'Karii claimed they had some ties to a god, but I ignored them 'cause I thought it was bullshit. Everyone claims ties to something, if only to make themselves seem more important." 

"A god. Not Fenrir?" 

"No name was ever mentioned. At least around me." She sighed and rubbed her eyes, her tail curling protectively around one of Bob's legs. "I can't even imagine what they have on him." 

Maybe it was because he needed some sleep, but that seemed like a non - sequitur. "Huh? On who?" 

"Fenrir." She glanced up at him, and finally noted the confusion. "They must have had something on him, otherwise Fenrir would never have allowed them to share power." 

"Jean gave me the impression he was a psycho god." 

"He is - was - but they wouldn't have let him loose if all they were going to get was a premature death." 

That would have made sense if anything did make sense. But nothing did, so it didn't. "What can you have on a god?" 

She shrugged and gave him a dirty look, as if he was hurting her brain. "How the fuck should I know?!" 

Logan sighed and dropped his arms to his side. "Where are the T'Karii?" Breaking heads he could gladly do, and it might even make him feel better. 

But Helga's lips twisted fretfully, and she shifted her gaze to Bob's slack face. Strangely, he looked even more ageless unconscious. "I don't know. The New York branch is gone, so I can only tell you they're not here." 

Logan kicked the cabinet behind him with the heel of his boot. It was metal, though, so it only left a tiny dent. "So what the fuck am I supposed to do, Hel?" 

"Nothing." She looked at him with eyes so sad and so tired his rage seemed to instantly short circuit. "I just needed someone to talk to." 

God, what a mess. Such a big fucking mess, and ironically, the guy they went to to solve these things seemed to be in an irreversible coma. Logan closed his eyes and hung his head, pulling together the nascent shards of his rage and frustration and tamping them down. But he hated being helpless; he couldn't abide it. 

But neither, it seemed, could Helga. 

*** 

    He was back in the green again. 

Sometimes it was as warm as blood, and it was no exception now - it was as warm as it was gelatinous, an ichor green goop that surrounded him, holding his body up from the bottom of the tank, and yet he wasn't buoyant enough to float to the top of it. He was stuck in the middle, a seeming violation of gravity, an oxygen mask clamped over his nose and mouth to keep him from drowning. 

But Logan couldn't move, and didn't know if he was actually breathing or not. In a drugged half consciousness, he was only peripherally aware of all these things. What he could feel the most strongly were the things under his skin. They felt like long, cold needles jabbed in his veins, working their way slowly through his bloodstream. It hurt; god it hurt, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted to move his arms and rip them out, pull himself out of this fucking tank and kill them - the shadowy figures that moved beyond the green walls of his narrow prison, attending to the mechanical bleeps of machines in the outside world, their voices idiot murmurs that made no sense at all ( but they were all men here; there were no female tones, no higher pitches ) - but all he could do was lay there, as quiescent as a pickled fetus in a jar, and wait for these men to get tired of torturing him. And he knew from experience that they had all the time in the world, and they didn't get bored easily. 

He tried to focus on moving any body part - it didn't matter what - hoping that it would be the start of a body wide rebellion against whatever drugs were keeping him under, but still allowing him to feel every ounce of pain. 

But no, nothing. Just pain, agony weaving its way into every fiber of his being in slow motion, a raw nerve being pulled taut, scrubbed raw with salt, and doused with acid. 

Words started to filter through, distant, as if in another room. " - threw you the obvious, just to see if there's more - " 

It was music; someone had turned on radio. What the fuck was this, a garden party for them? " - behind the eyes of a fallen angel; eyes of a tragedy - " 

It was getting closer, sounding clearer, and he was starting to feel ... what? Numb? The pain was ebbing away. "Here I am expecting just a little bit too much from the wounded. But I see, see through it all. See through - " 

The tank suddenly collapsed ... no, it disappeared. Logan hit the floor hard, green goop splashing to the cement around him, and instantly he was on his feet, ripping tubes from his arms as he turned to face his tormenters - 

- only to find they were gone, and he was alone in an empty room. No, not alone. 

" - see you." It was Bob, leaning against the metal door jamb, looking weary but hardly worse for wear. Seeing Logan, he cocked his head, and said, "Might want to think up some clothes for yourself, 'cause I'm startin' to feel inadequate." 

He glanced down at himself to see the tubes and green slime were all gone, but yes, he was naked. He had no idea how dreamscapes worked exactly, so he tried to imagine he had his jeans on. For some reason, it didn't work until he closed his eyes. When he looked back at Bob, he realized that even though he was no longer singing,  Logan could still hear faint music. "Helga's playing "Mer de Noms" right now," he said, giving him a CD title that meant nothing to him. But still his mind instantly translated it into "Sea of Names", and he wondered if that was Bob taking some kind of obscure shot at him, or just a weird coincidence. 

"So you're really here?" It was, in retrospect, a stupid question. 

But Bob must have forgiven it, because he turned his attention to the corroded metal boundaries of the cold room they were in, and he walked over to a shadowed wall that was half formed in Logan's mind, and therefore just a bit of darkness. Or it was - the closer Bob got to it, the more it filled itself in. A wall of large drawers? No, that didn't seem right ... in fact, it seemed to send a chill down Logan's spine. 

"Is it any wonder I can't sleep?" Bob sang, counter to the music - the singer he could hear through Bob's ears ( ? ) was singing something else. He wiped his hand over one of the drawers, clearing corrosion away from what appeared to be a nameplate, although Logan still couldn't read it. "All I have is all you gave to me." 

Logan realized, with a sudden lurch of his heart, that this was a morgue. Those were cold storage drawers full of bodies. "I survived," he said, although he had no idea why. No, he did. 

Bob nodded, and made no move to open any drawer. The entire wall seemed to sink back into blackness. "You wonder if you're the only one." 

Logan was about to deny it, but suddenly knew that was true. "What do you think?" 

Bob turned to face him, shrugging expansively. "With their level of tech, and their tendencies to be rotten fucking butchers, it  was lucky you survived. No, I take that back - not luck, but your will to survive." 

"You mean my body's will to survive." The healing process had nothing to do with his whims. 

"I think it's the same thing," Bob countered, then added, "Can I make the location a bit nicer?" 

"Be my guest." 

There was no sense of change: one second it was some dark torture chamber cum morgue, and the next second they were on a sunwashed patio, the light so bright it made Logan squint. He wished he was surprised to find himself reclining in a lawn chair with a bright red drink in his hand,  decorated by one of those toothpick umbrellas with a skewered piece of fruit and a swizzle stick that looked like a pink flamingo. He scowled at Bob, sitting next to him in a similar lawn chair, wearing only sunglasses and those goddamn ugly, loud surfing shorts of his, a similarly frou frou drink in his hand, only it was pale orange. They were sitting poolside at what Logan vaguely identified as Bob's Sydney place. 

"So yer playin' possum? Why?" Since there had been nothing he could for Helga - or Bob - and he had no real desire to speak to Jean or any other of the super squad, he barricaded himself in his room and decided to rest his eyes for a second, before Jean forced the door. Obviously, he fell asleep. 

"I'm not, actually. You're just the easiest mind for me to access." He took a leisurely sip of his drink. 

Logan sniffed his drink warily, and then set it down on the patio. It smelled nice - rich and full of rum - but he remembered what happened the last time he had a drink in Bob's mind ( well, so to speak ), and while getting drunk for once was kind of fun, it was also kind of embarrassing. He had embarrassed himself enough for one day. "Okay, now I'm offended." 

"Don't be, it's not an insult. It's just you had some of my energy in your mind before; it makes a sort of passageway." 

"Doesn't Hel have a mental connection with you?" 

"Yes, but it's different." He didn't elaborate, he just put his own drink down on the mica flecked patio, and seemed to gaze up at the hard sun in the cerulean blue sky. Logan was going to get on him about the evasion, but he noticed, as if for the first time, that Bob looked pale; he could see miniature highways of blue energy pulsing like blood beneath the thin skin of his chest. And now his presence seemed less ... overwhelming than other times. He really was hurting, wasn't he? 

"Yeah, I am," Bob said, commenting on his thoughts without shame. ( Like Bob knew what the hell shame was ... ) "Fenny damn near killed me. He kept tryin' to rip the sky apart, and I had to hold it together - that's just bad form in battle." 

"Rip the sky apart? What the hell does that mean?" 

"It means rip it apart - take out the atmosphere, everything: let the oxygen escape into space. He's a piece of work, he is." 

"He could do that?" He didn't think Bob was making one of his lame jokes this time. "Why didn't he do that before?" 

"What, and have me miss the fun? He'd never do that. Fen's a right sadist." 

Logan couldn't help but notice Bob was speaking of him as if he was still around."Jean left me with the impression he was dead." 

"For all intents and purposes, yes." 

"You're gonna explain that, right?" 

"Well, he's been sucked through Balder's gate. There's no way he's gettin' out of there, not even with high powered help." 

Logan knew, if his head could hurt for no physical reason, it would now. " A coin? He got sucked into a gold bullion?" 

Bob gave him a toothy grin, but it was anemic and as fragile as a spider web. "Not quite. Heard the term "coin of the realm"?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well, it is. Literally." 

Logan scowled at him before glancing at Bob's bluer than blue pool. The clouds painted on the bottom seemed fainter this time, life afterimages or wisps of fog. "That makes no fucking sense and you know it." 

Bob sighed, as if he was the one being difficult. "I'll  try and give you the short version. In your myth, Loki killed Balder and pretty much set in motion what would become Ragnarok, the death of all gods, but none of that happened exactly as myth would have you believe it. Balder wasn't killed by Loki, although it wasn't for lack of trying - those two hated each other. Went at it like cats with vises on their testicles." Logan wasn't even going to ask. "But they never could quite kill each other, and Loki had just had his kid when Balder decided to dis - incorporate - " 

"Do you mean die?" 

"No. Dis - incorporate. It's a god thing - transform into pure energy and strew yourself about. Anyhoo, Balder did have a minor gift of second sight, and knew Fenrir would cause major trouble someday, so he created the gate: a very specific microportal that opened up into a pocket universe that was more isolated and Stygian and impossible to access than all the others. Because he knew Fenrir would try and destroy it, he let it be known it was a portal, but left out the little fact that it had been hidden by a potent spell so it resembled a gold coin. He hid it really well, and started to spread the word it was a myth, and after he destroyed a number of portals and never found it,  Fenrir bought it. Of course it was a lie, but Balder planned it that way." 

"But Kitty touched it, and she wasn't sucked in. So did Scott. So, I bet, did you. Why didn't you get trapped there?" 

"Balder keyed the portal to open only at Fenrir's energy frequency. See, while other goods could mimic it, they could never specifically hit it, because o - the frequencies are different for each one, like DNA for Humans." 

He was going to say "our", wasn't he? Fuck, he must be in dire straits if he almost admitted it. "So no one mimicking it could get it to open?" 

"No. And it's a one way portal, so it can only be opened from the coin itself, which you may note has been left in this dimension." 

"Cause it was stuck in the center of his chest - there was no way he could take it with him when it pulled him in from the inside out." 

"Bingo, mate. You're good at this." 

"How do you do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Stay eighteen steps ahead of everyone else?" 

"Well, when you get to my age -" 

"Do you have this second sight too? Are you psychic?" He scowled at him, wondering if he'd get the truth now. 

Bob gave him a frail smile, and Logan knew he wouldn't."No, mate, and boy am I glad about that. I think that'd take some of the fun out of life, you know?" He must have picked up on his mood, because he sighed heavily, and said, "You have a gift for strategy, yes? Well, so do I, mate, if in a slightly less violent way. We all have strengths we can play to, even Scott, believe it or not. I counted on him to protect the others if I got roughed up, and he did. He has the aspect of the mother hen about him, doesn't he?" 

Logan shrugged. "Somethin' cock related, yeah." 

Bob burst into raucous laughter, seemingly surprised by it. Was Bob ever surprised by anything, though? "Oh, that was a good one," he said finally, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 

"Why am I here, Bob?" He was sure there was a point he was missing, but maybe not. With Bob, it wasn't always a sure thing. 

"I heard Helga talkin' to you. Tell her it's not her fault, and I know what's really goin' on here. Also, let her know that she should call Ammy and get her to zap me outta here. While recovering, I can't always control ... things, and I don't want any telepaths gettin' hurt on my account." 

That was an interesting statement. "What's really goin' on here?" 

"A power play, disguised as revenge. I'll explain it more as soon as I confirm it." 

Logan doubted that severely, but what was he going to do? Try and beat him up in his own mind? Even with Bob at less than a hundred percent, he was sure he wouldn't allow that. "You enjoy bein' cryptic, don't you?" 

"Of course. I have my image to think of." 

"Which image is that?" 

"The cryptic one." 

Logan sighed. They really did miss their calling as a comedy team. "I'll pass it on to Helga." 

"Cheers, mate. And I'll catch you up once I'm back on my feet again. Promise." 

"Yeah," Logan sighed, not believing him for a second. But he was too tired to argue with him, and it wasn't like that ever worked. 

And just like that, he woke up in  his dark bedroom, instantaneously aware he wasn't alone. 

"Don't stab me," Helga said, settling her head on his chest. 

He would have sat up, but she was laying partially on top of him - her head and the right half of her torso on his chest, her right leg over his leg, and her tail curled around his waist - and if he did, he'd have thrown her to the floor. He knew from experience she'd drag him along with too. "You seemed really relaxed," she continued, gently stroking his abdomen. "Bob was talking to you, wasn't he?" 

"What, you think I can't sleep like normal people?" 

"Only after really energetic sex." 

Well, okay, she might have had a point there. He did seem to have his most restful ( as in non - screaming ) sleep after sex, or when he seriously needed down time to heal. Was that just a coincidence? "You knew he would, didn't you?" He glanced towards the door, which looked just as he had left it - locked and barricaded - and asked, "Can you teleport too?" 

"I was an assassin too, honey - I'm used to getting into places I'm not supposed to." 

He didn't like the fact that she had added "too". He had no actual proof he'd been an assassin ... not really ... "He wants to let you know it's not your fault, and Ammy should zap him outta here before he accidentally blows up a telepath's head." 

She traced circles on his stomach, just above his navel. It almost tickled, yet it was starting to become arousing. He wished she'd knock it off. "Did he tell you why it wasn't my fault?" 

"He implied the T'Karii were a means to a different end, but he didn't bother to elaborate." He grabbed her hand and moved it up his chest, to safer territory. 

"Of course not. If he actually told us what he meant, it would be too damn easy." She sighed, smoothing her hand over his chest. "It's terrible, isn't it?" 

"Bob bein' an asshole?" 

"Well, that and all this crap. Do ya ever wonder what it would be like to have a normal life?" 

"No." 

She propped herself up on one elbow and stared down at him with an ironic look on her face. "There's just no wastin' time with you, is there?" 

He shrugged. "Why bother?" 

"Agreed." He wasn't surprised that she kissed him, but he was surprised at how soft a kiss it was, far more tender than he expected from the passionate Helga. 

Even though he knew what she was doing, he responded anyways, kissing her as her tail slid down his leg, tickling the inside of his thigh. She gently took his bottom lip between her teeth, a love bite that didn't break the skin but sent an oddly thrilling pain through his body. God,she was just too good at this. 

He pushed her back slightly, and pointed out, "You don't want me." Ego blow that it was, he knew he was just a proxy for Bob. 

She didn't even try to deny it. She simply raised a slender jade eyebrow, and replied, "And you don't want me. So who's hurt?" 

He just stared at her, not sure what to say. Even his first thought - "How did you know that?" - shocked him. She must have seen it in his eyes, because her look became unusually sympathetic. "Hey, Logan, it's okay." 

"It isn't okay! I do want ... " He slid out from under her and sat up, on the edge of the bed. His back was facing her, but he could feel and hear the bed shift as she sat up as well. Even before she put her warm hand on his spine, he knew she was looking straight at him. The silence became thick, and he could barely stand it. "How do you make the ghosts go away?" He finally asked, his voice pitched so low he could barely himself talk. "When do they finally leave you alone?" 

She sighed heavily. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?" Her hand slid down his back, and she muttered to herself, "He's gonna make me say it." She cleared her throat, and said, "When you let them go, Logan. When you let them go." 

He wasn't surprised she had said that, and yet, he had no idea what to say. 

How did you let go? How did you let go of something you could barely remember having? 

Logan wondered if he'd ever find the answer, and if he could ever bear to let Mariko go. 

Epilogue 

Sydney, Australia 

    He felt him the instant he smelled him. A smell like sulphur, like someone had just lit a match the size of the Chrysler building. 

"Helga," he said cheerfully, as Bob started down the stairs. She must have just come in from the pool. Even Bad Religion blasting on the stereo couldn't drown him out. "You're lookin' hot,  if I don't say so myself. Oh hey, I made a joke!" He then proceeded to laugh at said lame joke. 

Man, he could be the most obnoxious thing in existence. "You're better off dead," Bob sang quietly. "A smile on the lips and a hole in the head." He was still enervated from the battle with Fenrir, but he was strong enough ... or at least he hoped he was. "Better off dead, you're better than this. Take it away 'cause there's nothing to miss." 

"Hello, Loki," he said, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. 

"Hey, Bobbo!" Loki said, turning to face him. From the neck down, he looked just like tall, thin white guy, currently wearing baggy camouflage pants and a skin tight black t - shirt that only men who had a chest like Logan should have been allowed to wear: otherwise it was just sad and embarrassing. But from the neck up, Loki looked almost like a regular guy with a lean knife blade of a face, as pale as milk, until you reached his scalp. There, in place of hair, was fire - a six inch high topknot of flame that constantly flickered and burned, sending red orange shadows playing across his ashen, gaunt face. It was disconcerting to people who had never seen before, and there had been awkward moments when people thought he was actually on fire, not realizing that the flames was actually a part of him, a part of the energy that made Loki what he was. "Ooh, man, you don't look so good." 

"I'm getting better." He was; that wasn't a lie. Bob met his gaze, which was the thing that got to people most of all, and which was why Humans couldn't look Loki in the face - tiny flames burned in his eye sockets, the same red orange as the flame on his scalp. Fenrir had no flames outside his body, but he did have yellow fire burning in his sockets. It would have been deeply unsettling had any Human been able to look at him face on. 

"I'm gonna go finish tanning," Helga said, gesturing towards the pool. She was in the kitchen, between him and Loki, who was standing in the center of the living room. She was trying to pretend she wasn't freaked out by his proximity to her, but Helga had never liked Loki, so he didn't think it was strange. 

Bob gave her a reassuring smile, aware she was also nervous for him. There was no need - just seeing Loki filled him with a sort of righteous anger that only made him feel stronger. 

"Don't let us keep ya, hon," Loki said, a leer obvious in his voice. But when he looked back at Bob again, his expression was studiously bland. "I'm really sorry about Fenny. Any idea how he got out?" 

Bad Religion was now singing, "Let's talk about no one, please talk about no one; someone; anyone," and it seemed perfectly timed. He'd certainly put on the right CD at the right time. 

Bob sat down on the arm of the couch, deciding to concentrate his strength where he'd need it. He folded his hands on his knee, and tried to keep the anger from his voice and expression. "No, not really. All I can figure is it was someone really powerful, working with the T'Karii clan." 

Loki grimaced in thought, his thin lips writhing like worms on hot pavement. "Shit, who'd do a thing like that? I mean, I know he was my kid, but fuck, I'm glad Fenny's gone. He was never right in the head, you know?" 

"Boy, do I know." He paused briefly. "Kinda like his parent." 

Loki laughed, but it petered out as he realized he wasn't kidding. "What's that supposed to mean?" The flames flared briefly in his eyes. 

"Fenny screwed the pooch, Lok. You know what he said to me? He said:"Chaos already reigns here. Who better than me?" Thing is, Lok, that sounded like you, not him." 

"He's my kid - he would sound like me." 

"Not after centuries locked away. And not when he never did in the first place." 

Now the flames were really burning hot in his sockets. "You don't know everything, Bob." 

"Why, Loki? If you wanted to kill me, why not do it yourself?" 

Loki took a step back, assumed a defensive posture. "You're high. I'd never try and kill you!" 

"No, because you can't. But Fenny had a decent shot. Why, Loki? Why did you decided you wanted this realm so badly now?" 

The flames in Loki's eyes seemed to jump out of his sockets, and Bob knew he was now trying to use his powers, either against him or to get out of here, but entropy wasn't responding, and by the way his posture seemed to become uncertain, Loki was starting to get the idea he had been prepared for him. "You're late for my pool party. Lok. Know who got here before you? Ganesha. He's havin' a wallow - you know how he loves the water." 

Loki's expression was torn between hate and panic. The thing was, Ganny was always a bit self conscious, not only for looking like an elephant, but also for having what he perceived as a "useless" power: control of entropy over a small area. The funny thing was, though, he completely negated Loki's power - although Loki controlled the forces of entropy, they were out of his reach whenever Ganesha was in proximity to him. 

And unlike Loki, Ganny was a true friend. 

Bob got to his feet, and Loki took several steps back. Without entropy at his command, he was powerless against Bob, and they both knew it. "Your connect to the T''Karii was an excuse, wasn't it? You used your own hopelessly psychotic son for a power grab, didn't you?" 

"Now look, maybe you can live with these fucking savages, but I can't!" Loki roared, retreating to rage in his fear. "I can't fuckin' slum with these beasts! We're so much better than this! I could make this a realm worth living in again!" 

"No, you couldn't, and we both know that was never your intention. But maybe you can help somewhere else. Have you ever thought of that?" Bob said the words and gestured behind Loki, and he looked over his shoulder in shock as reality ripped apart, and a black void gaped behind him. 

His head snapped back towards him, flames flaring, as he gaped in complete shock. "Bob - !" He shouted, but that was all he was able to say as reality closed around him, and he was surgically removed from this one. 

Bob got a head rush that left him feeling weak, so he sat down heavily on the couch. Sometimes he could really feel his age. 

After a few seconds, Helga peeked her head back inside. "Gan said there was a big energy expenditure; he figured it was over." 

Bob looked up and nodded. "Over and out." 

"I don't suppose you killed him." She came over and sat beside him on the couch, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder.  
She was wearing a green tank top and black shorts, modest attire for her, but he knew it was only because Ganesha was around. She still felt "funny" about being half naked around Ganny. 

"I couldn't do that, Hel." He put an arm around her, and enjoyed the scent of her sun warmed skin. "I'm not the amoral freak that he was." 

"So what did you do with him?" She nestled against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. Her warm hair tickled, but it was a nice feeling. 

"I sent him to a dimension where entropy is completely out of control. It'll take him a long time to get  a handle on things." 

"But then he'll come back for you." 

"It'll take him a few centuries to stabilize entropy enough to successfully open a portal, and by then, I don't think he'll be stupid enough to try and take me on again." 

"No, he'll get someone else to do it, just like now." 

"So? I'll kick all their asses." He kissed the top of her head, and she put her arms around his waist, her tail curling around his thigh. 

"You're lucky you have me lookin' after you," she said wryly. 

He smiled, stroking her upper arm gently, her skin warm and smooth. If Loki couldn't live in this dimension, he wasn't really trying. "Yes, I am," he agreed, closing his eyes and sinking back into the couch, holding Helga tightly to him. 

It really wasn't a bad life, if you knew what to do with it. 

THE END 


End file.
